Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?
by Shannon Vega
Summary: After Visions of Death, Sarmatian refugees escaping the Huns arrive at the Wall looking for the legendary Sarmatian knights. A lot more focused on Gawain, Galahad, and Tristan and their lives postVisions of Death. No Slash. ON HIATUS!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: This story is a sequel to "Visions of Death." A lot of the same characters are in it but the focus now shifts to the three knights whose heads I did not mess with in my previous story. Yes, this a story that features Gawain, Galahad and Tristan. Enjoy! And please, review. Yes, I'm begging. Deal with it.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter One: Nightmares

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Brigid started awake, sweat pouring off her body. Dagonet was on patrol with Arthur and his Sarmatian brothers and it was only she and her unborn babe in the bed. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she dropped to the floor and padded to the window. Each step brought a flurry of kicks from the babe in her womb and Brigid laid a soothing hand on her belly.

It was a matter of a weeks before this baby would be born. Maybe less.

The night was rich and thick and Brigid hugged herself against the darkness. The dream had come for five days and she knew that she had to go and try to find the women she had seen. They were blood to her, if only by the life within her belly.

Decided, she crossed back to her wardrobe and pulled out the simple riding clothes that she had scavenged. The tunic dropped over her breasts and belly like a tent, turning her into a shapeless lump. The breeches tied just beneath her belly and covered her from hip to ankle. A heavy cloak completed her disguise and the pregnant wife of the Sarmatian healer hurried from the rooms she shared with Dagonet, her healing bag banging against her hip.

She hurried to the stables, suddenly glad that her husband had pushed her to learn to ride, if only for the first two months after they found out about her pregnancy. Her pony, a solid thing with a silvery coat, whickered softly as it spotted her. It had missed being ridden but it was quite pleased when its new mistress offered it an apple. Lifting a saddle from the tack room, she walked back to the horse. Long moments passed as the healer tightened the saddle, situated the bride, and considered how to get onto the horse. Fortunately, this horse was much smaller than any of the Sarmatian horses.

Stepping onto a box, she heaved herself into the saddle and stilled herself as the baby in her womb roiled in protest. She sighed and kneed the horse forward.

It was still dark when Brigid left.

With any luck she would be back before dawn.

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Fulcina rapped her knuckles against the door again, her face a mask of worry. "Brigid. Can you hear me? Please open the door."

Gueneviere paused behind her chamberlain and frowned. "Brigid is not yet awake?" It was unlike the Hibernian-she was usually awake before the dawn, especially with the baby rattling around her like stones in a jug. "Open it," she ordered her chamberlain, watching as Fulcina pulled her keys from her apron and opened the door.

The room was empty, the bed obviously slept in, and clothes strewn around the room as if someone had dressed quickly.

"Get Vanora," ground out Gueneviere, closing the door with a bang.

An hour later and the queen knew the truth. No luck, Gueneviere thought glumly. "Where could she have gone?"

Vanora shook her head, bouncing Eleven on her hip. "I don't know. You don't think she'd go back to Hibernia, do you?"

Fulcina shook her head. "No. She loves Dagonet too much. Did she seem out of sorts?"

Gueneviere pondered for a moment then nodded. "Yes. She was acting like-" she trailed off, brown eyes widening as she gasped.

Vanora huffed impatiently. "Like what?"

"Like she did in the dungeon with me above the wall. Like she was having visions."

Fulcina frowned. "Of what?" The Christian woman did not question the Hibernian's gift-she'd seen it in action.

All three women shook their heads. Whatever images had haunted their healer had not bee confided.

"We have to find her."

"And send for Dagonet," added Vanora.

Gueneviere grabbed the tavern owner's arm and shook her head. "What would he do? He's at least a week's ride from her in any of a dozen directions. No, we find her ourselves."

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Brigid frowned at the sun. The bright orb was supposed to have been still down by the time she found the subjects of her visions. She was supposed to have been home in time to avoid any suspicion that she had ventured out. Now she would have a queen, a Roman and an employer to answer to. Reaching into her healing bag, she broke off a piece of the bread loaf that she had brought. How it was that every hill looked the same was beyond her. Where were those women?

As if in answer to her question, her horse whinnied and was answered by horses over the next ridge. Kneeing her horse forward, she scanned her surroundings for the pieces of her vision.

The carnage before her was just as it had been in her nightmares. Dead littered the ground. Horses, still tied down, watched with compassionate eyes. Sliding down from her pony, she wrapped the reins around a post and began to search the bodies. They all had the same look of her knights, she realized. _Sarmatians._ She knew as surely as she breathed that these people were Sarmatians and that they had been slaughtered too close to their destination.

Brigid crouched beside a golden-haired woman, pressing her fingers to the girl's throat. Suddenly a hand grabbed and she was lying on the ground, staring up at the girl whose pulse she had checked.

"Who are you?" growled the woman.

Brigid took a deep breath and scanned her eyes over the woman. She was bathed in blood and cuts covered her torso and arms, yet she still leaned over the healer with eyes burning with rage. "A healer. I need to help you," she advised. "I will not harm you," she added.

The woman frowned, obviously surprised that this red-haired pregnant woman was speaking in Sarmatian to her. "How do you know our language?" she demanded, rocking back up onto her heels, leaving Brigid to her own devices to get upright.

"My husband. We live at the wall," she answered, motioning in the general direction she had come.

The blonde nodded, a hand pressed to her side as she scanned her fallen companions. Stepping over a dead man, she crouched beside a raven haired girl. "Stasja, wake up," she whispered.

Brigid continued her search, finding more dead than alive. In fact, of the thirty bodies scattered around the hill, only three were alive, including the woman who had pinned her to the earth. Crouching beside the third survivor, she held the woman up to allow her to drink. "You are safe," she offered in Sarmatian.

The woman nodded and offered a wan smile before drifting back into unconsciousness.

Brigid straightened and stared at the blonde woman. "We need to get you back to the wall. Can you ride?"

The girl nodded. "What is your name?"

Brigid offered a tired smile. "Brigid, wife of Dagonet of the Rhoxolani," she answered, using the formal title that Dagonet had taught her.

The girl stared. "I am Zaria, of the Iazyges," she responded. She pointed to the brunette she had been crouched beside. "She is Stasja of the Cercetae. And she," pointing at the only other survivor that Brigid had been tending, "is Nadège of the Amazones." The introductions finished, the blonde crouched beside the girl called Stasja and picked her up with difficulty. Draping her friend over the back of an empty horse, she proceeded to tie the girl to the saddle. Next came the girl called Nadège, who was also draped over a horse and tied on.

Turning to the healer, she helped Brigid back into the saddle and then followed suit.

There was not much talking as the four women headed for the wall. After all, they would have time to talk if they didn't end up dead first.

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	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: I have to say that I can't help but be incredibly grateful for my wonderful readers. You know who you are. And, as always, response to reviews appears below.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Two: Bitterness

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Brigid frowned and shifted in the saddle uncomfortably. The woman riding beside her watched her with hooded eyes and hadn't said a word since they had left the dead Sarmatians burning in a mass funeral pyre.

_Wonderful_, thought Brigid as she stroked her belly trying to calm the baby inside, _I'm riding with Sarmatians and the only one that is conscious is as talkative as a stone_.

The landscape slowly changed as the four women, two conscious and two unconscious, neared the wall. The hours had crawled by to mid-afternoon by the time that Brigid spotted the gates to the fortress. She let out a sigh of relief as they passed beneath the thick walls and into the courtyard.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" demanded Gueneviere, striding from the stables where she had been saddling her horse in preparation for searching for the selfsame woman before her. Gueneviere looked like some ancient war goddess, anger radiating off her in waves. "Do you have any idea how worried you had us? What is the name of all the Gods were you thinking?"

Brigid had the good grace to blush and look chagrined as she sat astride her pony. She opened her mouth to speak, took one look at Gueneviere's dark look, and promptly shut her mouth.

Gueneviere took a deep breath and turned from her healer and friend to look at the women who had arrived with Brigid. "I am Gueneviere, queen of the Britons."

The only Sarmatian still conscious looked at the queen, eyes unreadable. "I am Zaria, of the Iazyges. We," she motioned to the two women who lay draped over their horses, "are Sarmatian."

Gueneviere nodded and stepped to Brigid's horse, holding the reins as the healer carefully slid to the ground. "I will have the women brought to the healing room. You," she pointed at Brigid, "had better go see Vanora once you're done with these women. She's sick with worry."

Brigid nodded silently and walked with the men who carried the Sarmatian women to the healing rooms. The women were placed on a cot each and Brigid quickly shooed all but Gueneviere and Zaria from the room. "Sit," she ordered Zaria as she began to strip the unmoving and wounded women of their bloodied clothes and wash the wounds with clean water.

Zaria frowned but did as she was told. The door opened and Fulcina stepped through the door of the healing room, a look of relief on her face when she saw Brigid tending to two wounded women. Fulcina touched Brigid's arm, indicating that she would take Brigid's place tending to the unconscious women, and motioned Brigid towards the conscious Sarmatian. Brigid nodded and stepped towards the blonde Sarmatian.

Brigid crouched in front of Zaria, noting that the Sarmatian had stiffened quite a bit since Fulcina had entered the room. "You are among friends," she affirmed in Sarmatian. "I must see your wounds," she said, switching from Sarmatian so that the women around her would all understand her.

Zaria began to shake her head but paused at the look on the healer's face. This woman named Brigid reminded the Sarmatian of the healers in her village who brooked no opposition. Slowly the tunic that the Sarmatian woman wore was pulled off and the wounds to her torso tended to.

Next came her pants and the wounds on her legs were addressed. Satisfied, Brigid laid the

woman on a cot near her friends and covered her nakedness with a blanket.

A quick check of the two still unmoving women satisfied Brigid that her three patients would likely survive the night.

A tap on her shoulder and she was soon following Gueneviere out of the healing rooms, leaving Fulcina with the first watch over the wounded women. Brigid rubbed her eyes and fixed her old friend with a wan smile. "What do you want to know?"

Gueneviere frowned and guided the healer to an enclosed garden, each woman taking a seat on the stone bench that overlooked a riotously colored garden. "I would like to know what happened to those women and how you found them."

Brigid sighed. "I saw them in a vision. They were fighting a band of Saxons but they were ill-fed and in ill-health and no match for the Saxons. They are here because the lands that our knights call their home is no more. The Huns have swept across the plains, killing and enslaving anyone in their paths. And plague is following on the Huns's heels. These women are the only survivors of a group of refugees headed towards the famed Sarmatian cavalry at Hadrian's Wall." Her voice had taken on a bitter edge as she finished her analysis.

Gweneviere nodded, sadness creeping into her eyes. If Brigid's words were true, and the Woad queen had no doubt they were, then the homes that Tristan, Gawain, Galahad, and Lancelot dreamed of were gone. She didn't include Bors or Dagonet in that group since the two oldest knights had both seen their homes destroyed by the Romans and had long since given up on dream of returning to Sarmatia. But if Sarmatia was gone, where would the knights who still dreamed of home go?

Brigid let her body sag. "I wish Dag was here," she admitted softly.

Gueneviere nodded and rubbed her friend's lower back gently. "I know. But they'll be back soon."

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Once Fulcina had turned away, Zaria allowed her gaze to wander over cots to her left, brown eyes sweeping over the unconscious forms of her friends. In all honesty, it might be a blessing if the two did not wake. She didn't know what to say to Stasia or Nadège or how to tell either woman of the loss of their people.

How would she tell Stasia that her husband of two years had fallen with an arrow piercing his eye? Or tell Nadège that her betrothed's ashes had been scattered to the four winds while they retreated to Hadrian's Wall? Only Zaria had lost no one in the raid. All of her people had either died from the Hun and the plague or been carried off by the Romans to service in Britain.

Zaria barely remembered her dark-haired brother, his eyes so dark and fathomless when he had looked for a final time at her, clutching the talisman she'd thrust into his hand. For so many years she had wondered what kind of man her brother had turned into. Now, so close to their goal, she had to wonder if her task had been one of madness. It had been her idea to leave the steppes and cross the forests of Germania to get to the shores of Gaul. In those long months of wandering they had lost daughters, sons, mothers, husbands, lovers. She couldn't even remember what her own parents looked like when they lay dying, their skin blackened from the plague.

What kind of world had she brought these women to? Her eyes drifted shut as those thoughts echoed in her brain, her sleep the dreamless sleep of the soul-weary.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: I love my reviewers. I apologize that this chapter is so short. More is coming.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Three: The Healing Room

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Brigid blinked awake in the chair in front of her patients, rubbing her sore neck. The men were due back in the next two days and the healer was not looking forward to the reunion for a variety of reasons. One, Dagonet would be more than a little upset that his very pregnant wife had gone gallivanting over the countryside without telling anyone. Two, the men would be heartbroken that their homeland had been destroyed. And three, who knew what the men would take of her three patients.

So far, only Zaria was conscious, the other two women breathing but not showing any indication of leaving their slumber. And Zaria was about as talkative as Brigid's pony.

Brigid knew that their physical injuries, while serious, should not have kept these women asleep. The only thing that she could determine was that perhaps these women had been through so much that hiding from the world was preferable to any other option. Which meant that she had to get her one awake patient to start trying to coax her other patients into consciousness.

Brigid stood slowly, careful not to overbalance, and stepped to Zaria's bed. The blonde woman was sitting in the bed, a linen shift covering her body above the sheet over her lap. From what Brigid had been able to glean by her tending of Zaria's body, the woman was in good shape with scars peppering her back, legs, and arms. The other women had similar wounds long since healed. She'd seen similar wounds on the knights and knew that they were the marks of battle.

"I need for you to talk to your friends," she said as she sat on the edge of Zaria's bed.

Zaria arched an eyebrow. "They won't talk back."

Brigid sighed. "Not right now, perhaps. But I need for you to pull them back from whatever dark place they are in. Talk to them about anything."

"Anything I would talk to them about would be dead."

The frown on the healer's face appeared instantaneously, as did a dark look in silver eyes. "Then lie."

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The riders paused on the crest of the hill overlooking the fortress, each man lost in his own thoughts. Only this morning, as they completed the circuit of their patrol, they came upon a pile of bodies burned beyond recognition. Anyone with half a brain could tell that it was a funeral pyre. The bodies were within a day's ride of the fortress and that had spurred the knights towards home at even greater speed.

Relief swept over the men as they saw that no smoke rose from the castle, no bodies lay strewn on the ground, and no obvious sign of the chaos that a massacre would leave. Kneeing their horses forward, they began a slow descent, their wary eyes sweeping from horizon to horizon.

Inside the wall, the men dismounted, eyes still searching for anything amiss. The men set about settling their horses in the stalls, brushing down their pelts, and providing fresh hay for the horses to eat.

Coming out of the stables, the men realized what bothered them. No one had come to greet them.

"We check the healing rooms first," ordered Arthur, sword drawn. He turned to Bors who was already headed towards the tavern.

"I'll look for Vanora," announced Bors, fist daggers at the ready.

Lancelot followed along with the other men, knowing that his lover had taken to the healing arts and would most likely be found with the Hibernian healer.

Dagonet found the healing room door shut and frowned. He rapped his knuckles against the wood and waited.

"Who is it?" came the breathless voice of his wife.

Dagonet's frown deepened. "Your husband. Open the door."

He heard shuffling, cursing and the creaking of beds for long moments before the door was opened, his wife looking flushed and mussed. He pushed open the door further, surprise etched on his face. Lying in three of the cots were three women, one glaring at the door or his wife and two obviously either asleep or unconsciousness. Fulcina was stopped midfold of a pile of linens, the look on her face full of surprise. And Gueneviere was seated on a chair by the window, a bow on her lap, and her head lolled to the side in sleep.

"My love!" cried Brigid, throwing her arms around her husband's neck and kissing him soundly. She held him for a long moment, savoring his return, then stepped away from him. "We didn't expect you back so soon," she admitted, nervously rubbing her belly as the men stepped past her and into the healing rooms.

"Who are they?" demanded Arthur, pointing at the three women lying on the cots with Excalibur.

Brigid sighed and moved to stand before the blade, her arms crossed over her breasts. "They are my patients and have been granted hospitality," she ground out.

The men frowned. Brigid was known for taking in strays but they didn't usually end up in the healing rooms.

Tristan cocked his head to one side. "Again, who are they?"

A gasp behind Brigid drew her attention from answering the scout. She spun and moved towards the source of her patient, a young woman blinking her way to consciousness. "Where am I?" croaked the girl in Sarmatian, clutching the blanket to her as her eyes widened in fear.

Brigid crouched beside the girl. "You are safe. You are at Hadrian's Wall." The Sarmatian words seemed to calm the girl and the knights looked at Dagonet in confusion.

"You taught her our language?" asked Galahad, stunned.

Dagonet nodded, not taking his eyes off his wife. "I got tired of having to stop and give a translation," he muttered.

Galahad's eyes widened as he suddenly realized that in order for Brigid to be speaking Sarmatian to the women, they had to know Sarmatian. "They are Sarmatian?" he asked softly, startled.

The blonde one lying at the end chuckled darkly. "We are Sarmatians. If we can be called that," she grumbled, closing her mouth on any other comments at the dark look being sent her by the healer.

Brigid stood and turned to the men, hands on her hips. "All of you, out. Except Dagonet," she amended.

The men grumbled as Fulcina and Gueneviere led the men out of the room, leaving only the two healers. "What's going on, Brigid?" demanded Dagonet.

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	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: So far you, my readers, have so far exceeded my hopes for your reactions that my brain is now kicking out more and more of the story at a quicker and quicker rate. Thank you for such wonderful reviews. You all are wonderful. And I promise longer chapters, especially the next one.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Four: Family

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Dagonet had handled the news with the stoic expression that was as much armor as his studded vest. He'd asked very few questions of the women lying in the sickbeds. He'd listened to their stories of death and destruction with guarded eyes. And when the stories were done, he'd simply left, a thunderous expression warning any who saw him to leave him alone.

The door had shut with a quiet thud, leaving the four women to their own thoughts. They hadn't been alone very long when a soft rapping on the door drew them from their thoughts. Fulcina peaked her head into the room, taking in the lost expressions on her friend and charges.

"Is everything alright?" asked Fulcina, crossing to Brigid and touching her arm.

Brigid nodded, shaking her thoughts from her eyes. "Fine." She tied the last bandage on Zaria and straightened, her hand automatically moving to her back.

"Where did you get that?" growled Zaria, noticing the amulet that the Roman woman wore around her neck.

Fulcina frowned. "Get what?"

Zaria pointed and Fulcina looked down to where the Sarmatian woman was pointing. The carved black bear amulet rested over her heart and she stroked it with a smile.

"My lover gave it to me."

Zaria's eyes narrowed. "And what Sarmatian did he steal it from?"

Fulcina shook her head, confused. "None. Lancelot is a Sarmatian himself."

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Dagonet stood at the bar, a cup of ale in his hand. He hadn't yet ventured to the table that his friends occupied. He still didn't know what to say to them. How was he to tell them that their homeland was destroyed? How could he tell Galahad that the land he remembered was now a barren wasteland, villages razed by the Hun and graves filled by plague? Or tell Gawain that the closest he would ever come to the Sarmatian bride he dreamed of would be one of the tattered women in the care of Brigid? And Dagonet had no concept of how to even tell Tristan, who had lost so much already, that his people had been decreased to a single girl in the healing rooms?

He stared into the cup of ale, looking for answers in the liquid. A thump against the bar signaled Bors arrival, as did his best friend's chuckle.

"So. Sarmatians."

Dagonet closed his eyes. "Yes."

Bors sipped from his cup of ale, eyes watching his friend's stoic face. Whatever was troubling him, the giant had no intention of letting it loose yet. "Makes you wonder what it would be like to go back." His voice turned wistful as he watched Seven and Nine playing chase with Lucan.

Dagonet let his eyes slide to his friend, eyes shuttered. His task would be harder than he had thought it would be if even Bors, who had created so much in this land with his wife and children, thought of going home.

Meanwhile, Arthur watched the two oldest knights standing at the bar, Bors talking and Dagonet silent. He let his green eyes wander around the assembled knights, for the first time since Badon Hill wondering if these men who had bled with him would leave this fortress they had made a home. Gawain and Galahad were in deep discussion about the women of Sarmatia and how the women in the sick rooms measured up to their memories. Tristan was paring an apple with studied nonchalance. Lancelot was rolling dice lazily, his eyes far away.

What would this fortress be like without his men? He hadn't even considered the thought of them leaving-not since they had turned back to stand with him. Dagonet had found a stubborn healer and Lancelot had found a quiet Roman. Would they leave now that there were women to remind them of home?

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Stasja of the Cercetae leaned back against the pillow propping her up and allowed her amber eyes to sweep the room she had awoken to. The Sarmatian-speaking girl who tended them was very pregnant and would birth in a matter of weeks, she decided. Winding a thick black lock around her finger, Stasja looked at Zaria. Her friend of more than a year looked as if the world had caved in on her.

"What is it?" she whispered, careful not to arouse the attentions of either the Roman woman who called herself Fulcina or the pregnant healer who had wandered across the room to join her friend in folding linens.

Zaria raised haunted brown eyes to her friend. "I think my brother may be here."

Stasja shifted and winced, the stitches in her belly pulling. "Good. I want to see if the great and powerful brother is as godlike as you claim," teased the dark-haired girl.

"You're just jealous because you had eight sisters," countered Zaria.

"Ah, you know me too well."


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: My apologies that this chapter took so long to get posted-my computer decided to do the "blue screen of death" and eat all of my writing. After beating my computer senseless, I'm back to writing. Please keep the reviews coming-they kept me going during the whole "blue screen of death" incident. Thank you!

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Five: Explanations

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Nadège grimaced at the healer, trying to decide whether it would be better to kill the woman tending to her wounds or just submit to the mothering that she had awoken to.

"Are you feeling alright?" asked Brigid, frowning at the look of pain on the dark haired girl.

Nadège of the Amazones, feared for her temper and notoriously bad at dealing with confinement, offered a sour look at the woman. "I'm feeling fabulous. And you?" she queried acidly in Sarmatian.

Brigid chuckled, ignoring the annoyance of the Sarmatian. It had been touch and go and she hadn't been sure that the Amazone would waken. She had been unconscious for near a week and the girls to the left of her had been near mad with worry, pestering Brigid with questions and demands for solutions.

"Very pregnant."

Nadège stared at the woman, startled that the woman had replied in Sarmatian. Not surprising since Brigid had only spoke in the language of her husband while the final Sarmatian woman was unconscious. "You are not Sarmatian," she stated with finality in Latin.

Brigid shook her head and adjusted the bandage that wound up Nadège's arm. "No. One of your countrymen married me."

Nadège frowned. "There are Sarmatians here?"

Stasja chuckled from her bed where she sat cross-legged. "Yes, Nadège. Even little Zaria's brother Lancelot."

Zaria tried to shush her friend, earning her a baleful look from Stasja.

Brigid gaped, hands falling away from the bandage. "Our Lancelot?"

Zaria glared at the women in the room and then turned brown eyes on the suddenly fascinating sheets bunched around her hips.

Brigid shook herself from her stupor and crossed to the taller girl. Reaching out, she caught Zaria's chin with her fingers and tilted the girl's face up for closer inspection. A ghost of a smile crept over her lips. "Ah. I see the resemblance. You both have that arrogant spark in your eyes."

"I'm not arrogant!"

Nadège chuckled. "Yes, Zaria. You are. But you do have a right to be. To a certain extent."

Zaria thought about it for a moment, then grinned. "Nadège, that's the nicest thing you've said to me."

"Psshhh," muttered Nadège, crossing her arms over her breasts. "What have I missed?"

Stasja frowned and looked at Zaria, who had suddenly become very interested in the sheets again. "Well, we have an audience with the king."

That got the eldest girl's attention and Nadège's sapphire blue eyes turned thunderous. "What business do we have with king? Were not emperors bad enough?"

Zaria grimaced while Stasja looked at her eldest friend patiently. "We are here at their sufferance. We must explain ourselves."

Blue eyes took on a menacing glint. "I explain myself to no king."

Zaria sighed dramatically. "Then we'll explain you."

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The meeting room was as tense as when Bishop Germanus told the knights that all their sacrifices meant nothing. Arthur had gathered his knights to sit at the round table so that they could all hear of the reason why three bedraggled girls from Sarmatia had found their way to the wall and to spare selfsame girls the trial of repeating their stories over and over again.

A knocking sound roused them all from their private thoughts and Brigid stuck her head into the room, grey eyes worriedly assessing the men. She'd managed to get the girls washed and dressed in borrowed clothes from one of the stable boys and now had them standing in the hallway just behind her. A quick lecture about proper etiquette that would have had the matrons of her order smiling had been resolutely ignored by all as they waited to enter the room.

"Excuse me, Arthur," interrupted Brigid.

Arthur smiled slightly at the healer, motioning her forward. The healer stepped through the door, holding it open for the three girls to follow. They did, though the eldest followed at the rear, for all the world looking as if she were sizing up every escape route. "Welcome, ladies. You are our honored guests. Please, sit," he offered, motioning to the empty chairs at the table.

Slowly the women were ushered forward, Jols pulling out chairs for each woman at seats that had been prepared for them with food and drink at the ready. Jols took Brigid's elbow with a smile and guided her to the chair beside Dagonet. Soon all were seated and all eyes were on the three Sarmatian women.

"Ask your questions," ordered Nadège.

Arthur's eyebrow rose at the command. "Very well. Who are you?"

Stasja grinned and pointed to Nadège. "She's Nadège of the Amazones." A slight incline of the head indicated that Nadège concurred. "I'm Stasja of the Cercetae."

Gawain broke in, curious that someone from their homelands had come so far. "A long way to come, little ones."

Stasja nodded. "Yes. And this giantess is Zaria of the Iazyges." She motioned to the blonde woman, who glowered down at her friend. She was indeed the tallest among them but the top of head barely reached the top of Galahad's brow.

"Welcome," offered Tristan, sizing up each woman. He was not surprised that the dark haired girl with the quiet manner was Amazone. What surprised him was that she had left Sarmatia. What had driven her from their tribe's nomadic ramblings?

Nadège nodded to him, accepting wordlessly his greeting.

Across the table, Lancelot's eyes narrowed at the names spoken. Zaria was a common enough name among the Iazyge, he reasoned. Surely this grown woman before his eyes could not be his baby sister. "Who is your father?" he asked, brown eyes fixed on the blonde seated across from him.

Zaria fidgeted, shooting a desperate look at Nadège, who sighed and looked down in acquiescence. "My father was-"

"Sarmatian," cut in Nadège, taking pity on the woman she saw as a little sister. "As were all our fathers."

Galahad leaned forward, eyes fixed on the blonde. "Why are you here?"

Zaria frowned and looked again at Nadège who started to shake her head. The looks fixed on her by the two younger woman had her sighing in defeat and closing her eyes. "Nadège will explain," promised the blonde.

"What would you explain to us?" asked Bors, one hand curled around his mug. His dark eyes took in the way that the dark haired girl and the golden haired girl deferred to the Amazone. And he noticed how the Amazone had the look of Vanora when she would rather be any place but where she was.

Nadège groaned and opened her eyes to the expectant gazes of Sarmatian, Hibernian, and the Woad queen. Trust her friends to abandon her to her fate, she grumbled silently. Grabbing the goblet that had been set at her place, she took a long gulp of the wine, hoping for numbness.

"Sarmatia is gone," she announced bluntly. If her _friends_ were going to abandon her to tell the story, then they would get the short version.

"What do you mean, Sarmatia is gone?" asked Galahad, dark eyes narrowing.

Another gulp of wine and Nadège was ready to answer the question in some fashion. "Our people are dead and our lands are barren." She held up her hand to stop the questions that the men began to voice, effectively silencing the knights. "Those who burned in the pyre were the last remnants of a land that no longer exists."

Gawain shifted, blue eyes sweeping his comrades faces for belief. What he saw mirrored was confusion on every face save Dagonet's. Interesting. "How?"

Stasja and Zaria looked expectantly at Nadège, who was expertly ignoring her compatriots.

"Tell them," murmured Stasja, nudging her older friend with an elbow placed to the waist.

Nadège covered the yelp of surprise and glared. "The Huns. They've been encroaching for years. Every year they come closer and closer. Two years ago they grew tired of circling us and attacked." She paused and looked at Stasja, who had paled to the color of bones. "First fell the Seymnitae. Then the Vales. Next was our turn as the Huns descended on the Amazones. Satisfied that they had done everything in their power to kill anything that could ever wield a sword or draw a bow, they moved on. Next came the Orineans, the Zinchi, the Coli, the Cercetae and the Izagyes, to name a few. All fell, all were crushed beyond recognition."

Bors frowned. Something was not right. "But you three are alive."

A snort from Zaria brought a glare from Nadège and Stasja that clearly said that if she wanted to tell the story, the youngest was more than welcome. Raising her hands in surrender, the golden-haired girl half-listened. Nadège had told the tale so many times to explain their presence in Germania, in Gaul and finally in Britain. Why, she wondered, did people never tire of hearing the gory details.

"Yes," answered Nadège in a tight voice, knuckles white where she clenched them on the table.

"How?" demanded Gawain again.

Nadège's eyes flickered to her companions, seeing the strain on the two girls. Relaxing, she leaned back in her chair. She needed to present the image of peacefulness to get her friends clear. "A favor. My friends are tired and should go to their rooms. I will answer your questions."

Stasja started to protest but was silenced when Zaria rose and crossed to her friend. "Alright, but we're within screaming distance," the second oldest girl assured her friend, shooting a distrustful look at the assembled party.

Brigid stood carefully and crossed to them, offering what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'll protect her," she promised as she closed the door behind the girls, then turned to Nadège, who had begun her tale.

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Two candle marks had passed since Nadège had ejected Zaria and Stasja from the meeting room. The girls were worried-Nadège was a good woman, though she would be the first to deny it, but she didn't handle interrogation well. She was as like to kill someone as answer their questions. She'd been mother, big sister and teacher for two years, all of her focus on protecting the two bedraggled girls she'd found among the ruins of Izagyes and Cercetae villages from the Huns, Saxons, and any other idiots who wished them harm.

Neither Stasja nor Zaria wondered at what Nadège was telling the knights. What they wondered at was why their friend was taking so long. The story was not a complicated one. Death, destruction, pestilence…it had all the elements of the holy book that a priest had tried to teach Stasja letters from. Well, before he'd tried to teach her other things of a more carnal nature and had his throat slit by a very protective Nadège.

"Do you think she's killed them?" asked Zaria, legs tucked up under her chin and suddenly looking younger than her twenty summers.

Stasja shook her head, eyes watching the wall. Nadège would gloss over the nastier bits. None of the girls wanted pity, not after surviving on their own for two years in the wasteland that had become Sarmatia.

The door opening roused the women from their thoughts and they found their friend following the healer. "Sorry that took so long," apologized Nadège as she lowered herself to her bed.

Stasja sat on the edge of her bed, facing the drawn face of her friend. "Are you alright?"

Nadège nodded her head, dark hair falling into her eyes. Looking down at the worn breeches that encased her thighs, she wondered at the reactions of the knights. For once she was glad that she had sent her friends away. Anything was better than seeing the dreams of home shatter in six men. She'd already done it to one and would have rather never have told the reason that three Sarmatian women had shown up on the doorstep of Arthur Castus.

Zaria frowned and plopped onto the bed next to Stasja. "So, what did they say?" she demanded impatiently.

Stasja shot a scolding look at Zaria but she was honestly just as curious.

Nadège shrugged. After two hours of talking, she was spent.

Stasja watched her friend, holding her breath as her friend did not answer. "They hate us, don't they?" she asked suddenly.

Nadège frowned. "Why would they hate us?"

"Because we didn't die with our people," answered a quiet Zaria for the dark haired girl beside her.

That got Nadège of the Amazones's attention. "You two are idiots," she stated, blue eyes cold. "They mourn their people but we are not to blame for plague or Hun. And they realize this. We fought as hard as we could and when we could fight no longer, we survived." Pushing herself to her feet, she crossed to the healer. "We are in your debt. You brought us here and healed us," she offered, taking the healer's hands in her own.

Brigid offered a watery smile and shrugged. "You are family. I think we should find some rooms for you," she admitted, grey eyes sweeping over the girls. "And perhaps some more clothes."


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: As my husband pointed out, I made these Sarmatian women very bitchy. My apologies. Don't worry, I'll make it all better. And for those of you who stuck with me, thank you.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Six: Apologies

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Gawain dropped onto the bench across from the two healers, one Sarmatian and one Hibernian, startling the pair from their hushed conversation. "How long did you know?"

Dagonet sighed, head drooping. "A week."

Gawain's eyes widened. He had hoped that his observations were wrong and that his friend had not kept this information from his comrades. Leaning forward, blue eyes glittering in the torchlight of the tavern, he growled out his questions in a low tone. "A week? And you did not think it important to tell us?"

Brigid sighed. "He did not have a choice in the matter, Gawain. They are my patients and it was their tale to tell."

Gawain frowned, staring down into his ale.

"I would have made the same choice were they my patients," admitted Dagonet, gripping his wife's tiny hand in his much larger paw.

Gawain looked up, blue eyes meeting blue. "What does this mean for us? For Galahad?" He leaned back, weariness etched in every line of his body. For so many years all of them had dreamed of home-well, Bors less than most-and to have it suddenly snatched away shook their reality. His head sagged as he stared down at the tabletop, suddenly realizing that his plans for a quiet life in the Sarmatian plains with a beautiful Sarmatian bride were dashed. "Where will we go?"

Brigid watched the young man seated across from her and bit her lip, fighting the tears that began to pool in her eyes. She'd been so concerned for the women in her care that she had forgotten the shattering effect their news would have on the men she loved like brothers. There were no words that could sooth this pain. Only time would heal the ache of a lost home.

Dagonet watched his friend and comrade struggling with the realization that he could never go home. Dagonet's own memories of Sarmatia were tinged with regret and pain long before three Sarmatian women arrived at the fortress. He had watched the Romans burn down his village, kill his village elder, and leave his village to the unforgiving elements. He had known, even as he was led away on his gelding, that anyone he cared about would be dead within a year. He had lived with that knowledge for fifteen years and had lived each day as if he were going to die. And he had welcomed the thought of death each day like a lover.

Well, until he had found the woman seated beside him.

Each man dealt with the loss in his own way. Bors had disappeared into the arms of Vanora, his wife's embrace the comfort the gruff knight needed to heal. Lancelot had taken his leave immediately after the meeting, his intentions clear as he sought the company of Fulcina. And Dagonet had dragged his pregnant wife to their quarters and locked the door against the world. Now, looking at the unattached knights, the Sarmatian healer realized that each had put up a wall to rival the stone monstrosity built several hundred years ago outside the fortress. Tristan was leaning back in a chair in a corner, dark eyes keeping all at bay as he whittled an apple to nothing. Galahad's brown eyes were thunderous and he snapped at any and all who neared him as he drank mug after mug of ale. And Gawain's blue eyes held the shattered reflection of a man who had lost his past.

It would take time to heal, he decided.

By all the Gods, he would try to make sure they had that time.

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Zaria watched Lancelot and Tristan sparring, two swords to one. Behind them were the knights Gawain and Galahad, their fight reminding the blonde woman of the fights between young men in her village. She sighed, letting her cheek fall against her knee.

She felt more than saw or heard the woman drop to the ground beside her. "You're going to have to tell him," came the soothing voice of Nadège.

Zaria shook her head, brown eyes still trained on the man that was her brother. "He's going to hate me. I couldn't save our mother. I couldn't save our village. I left him nothing to return to," she ground out bitterly.

Nadège smiled ruefully. "You sound like me on a bad day, poppet. I know what's wrong. You've been thinking too much. Come on," she ordered, rising to her feet and holding out a hand for the younger woman to take.

Zaria allowed herself to be hauled to her feet, a question in her eyes.

Shaking her head, Nadège led Lancelot's little sister towards the fortress. "Let's see if the queen wants to play," she suggested. Entering the fortress, Nadège led the way through a maze of hallways and turns that Zaria was certain she could never retrace. Finally they came to a thick door and Zaria watched her friend rap on the door.

She drew in a startled breath at the sight before her. Gueneviere was no longer the sedate queen but a warrior. Leather bands pressed her breasts flat and a narrow skirt that hung low on her hips and barely reached her knees were all that clothed the queen. "Gods," offered the younger woman in a startled voice.

Nadège grinned at the queen. "So I take it you are accepting our offer to spar?"

Gueneviere grinned and picked up her bow and sword and led the way down the hall. "First we'll need to get you both some arms."

"We three," corrected Nadège as they hurried after the queen. "We'll meet you at the sparring field," she promised as she dragged Zaria in another direction.

Zaria looked puzzled. "Why aren't we going straight away?"

"Because we need to get Stasja. She's as bad as you with her worrying." The brunette dragged the larger girl with her with surprising strength. "And either I'm going to have to take your mind off it or I'll have to kill you," she teased.

Zaria looked at her older friend with confusion. "You're joking? You never joke!"

Nadège shrugged and stopped before a door. While they had kept up the banter, they had finally reached the room assigned to Stasja. Knocking on the door, they waited for it to open. A moment later it did and they found themselves looking at the third member of their party dressed in tight breeches, a band of fabric pressing her breasts flat under the shirt she wore.

Stasja smiled at her friends and closed the door behind herself. "We must find Brigid," she advised. "And Fulcina, for that matter."

Zaria nodded. The shock of seeing her brother's amulet on the Roman woman and the knowledge that they were lovers had turned Lancelot's little sister into a royal bitch. "I have some apologies to make."

Nadège nodded. "We all do. Better to do it now than later."

Long minutes later the three women stood in the doorway of the healing rooms, both women they were seeking going about their business within.

"Ah, Nadège, you're not hurt, are you?" asked Brigid as she set down a stack of linens on a table.

Nadège shook her head, eyes not quite meeting the healer's. She'd behaved badly, as had all the women, and neither woman before her deserved it. "I'm sorry for our behavior. You both have done everything in your power to not only heal us but make us comfortable."

Brigid smiled and stepped forward, one hand coming to rest on the fighter's shoulder. "You already apologized, Nadège. And I took no offense-you all are better patients that Gawain and Tristan any day." She stepped back and nodded to Fulcina.

Fulcina looked a the women with trepidation.

Zaria cleared her throat. "It is to you that I owe an apology. You genuinely care for my brother and for that I am grateful. Thank you for all that you did, even though I was ungrateful."

Fulcina gaped. "You are Lancelot's sister?"

Zaria nodded.

"Does he know?" the Roman woman asked.

Zaria shook her head.

"Are you going to tell him? I think he would very much love to know that his sister is alive," she admitted, taking a tentative step closer to the Sarmatian women. This new peace was fragile and the women's emotions seemed to change like the pattern of clouds in the sky on a windy day.

Zaria shook her head again. "I don't know….he won't be very happy with me."

Fulcina smiled indulgently. The girl reminded of her Alecto when he had not wanted to confess a misdeed to Marius, though her son had had more reason to fear than this girl did. "We'll go together." She took Zaria's hand and walked out of the room, Zaria shooting a look at Nadège before she disappeared out the door.

Nadège smiled. "I think I like the Roman already. She can get Zaria in hand." Turning to Brigid, she watched emotions play over the pregnant woman's face. "We come for permission to spar."

Brigid raised an eyebrow, taking in their attire. "I see." She reached behind her and picked up a bag from the table. "Then let's go."

"What?" squeaked Stasja. "You can't come. You're pregnant."

Brigid chuckled. "I'm not sparring. At least not yet. But I will monitor and make sure that you don't kill anyone."


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Thank you so much to my wonderful reviewers. I'm sorry that this story is moving so slowly and that I've been so bad about updating. More is coming, I promise. And, as before, responses to my incredible reviewers comments are at the bottom of the chapter. Please review if you can. Anonymous or not, I just want to know what you think. Think of it like feeding the writer: reviews equal more chappies.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Seven: Sparring

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Gueneviere watched as Jols and Ganis laid the weapons on the ground for she and the Sarmatian women to use. She had her bow and her sword, of course, but it was fun to play with new toys. Across the field, Dagonet and Bors were sparring, Bors with a mace and Dagonet with a blunted axe. Near them but not near enough to interfere were Gawain and Galahad. Then came Arthur and his knight Tristan, who was matching grace and speed to Arthur's straightforward power.

Odd that Lancelot wasn't sparring with Arthur-they were each others usual sparring partners on the field. Her brown eyes scanned the field and spotted Lancelot heading towards Fulcina and the girl Zaria. Fulcina had a hand wrapped around the younger girl's arm and had fixed her lover with a welcoming smile.

Gueneviere was too far away to make out the words but it was clear that Fulcina was explaining something to the knight. Then the younger girl was speaking, though it was clear that she would rather swallow live snakes than say whatever it was that she was saying.

Whatever it was that she said to the knight, it was clear that she was shocked by his reaction. Lancelot swept her into his arms and swung her around, shouting for joy as he did so. The look on Zaria's face was one of relief and surprise. Suddenly Lancelot set her down and dragged her towards his comrades, shouting for them as he strode forward.

"Ah, so he now knows," came the voice of Nadège at her side.

Gueneviere turned and found her sparring partners watching as Lancelot introduced his sister to his friends. "Knows what?" she asked curiously.

Stasja grinned. "That Zaria is his little sister. Took her long enough to tell him," she muttered, turning towards the pile of weapons stacked neatly. "Ah, I think I've found true love."

Nadège and Gueneviere turned to find the dark haired girl swinging a sword with practiced ease and then stride onto the practice field.

"Come on, Nadège! Kick my ass!" challenged Stasja as she brandished the sword.

Nadège grabbed a sword and sauntered onto the field. "You make it too easy, Stasja. It's not even a challenge. Go play with Zaria-she needs the practice. Lady Queen, shall we?" she called to Gueneviere with a grin.

Gueneviere joined the women on the field, watching as a blushing Zaria joined them and paired off with Stasja. Each pair of women took care to give enough room that there would be no accidents and then set about the work of improving their fighting skills. For a queen, Gueneviere was surprisingly good at fighting, decided Nadège as she parried a strike from the Woad. Eyes narrowed, the women circled each other, their swords testing the defenses of each other. They blocked all but each other, each looking for chinks in the defense of the other.

When Gueneviere swung, Nadège was ready, blocking the hit and spinning out of range. Then the real fun began. Parry. Thrust. Swing. Block. The two women moved as if locked in a dance, which they were. Swipe, and a thin line of blood appeared on Nadège's arm. The Sarmatian backed up, checked it, and offered a vicious smile to the other woman. Parry. Thrust. Swing. Block. Long minutes passed as they continued the dance. Swipe, and a matching wound appeared on Gueneviere's arm. She nodded to her opponent and they continued, trading swipe for swipe and scar for scar.

A hand came down on Brigid's shoulder where she sat contentedly watching the women fighting on the low wall encircling the practice field. Looking up, the healer found herself gazing at the profile of a somewhat mystified king. "Good morning, Arthur," she chirped.

Arthur looked down at the resident healer and frowned. "What is my wife doing?"

Brigid shrugged and took a bite out of the apple that she had been holding. Wiping the stray juice from her chin with the back of her hand, she shrugged as she swallowed. "Sparring."

"Sparring?"

"Yes, Arthur, your lady wife is having fun slicing up a fellow warrior," she teased, humor dancing in her grey eyes.

Arthur dropped onto the wall beside the healer and accepted an apple that she handed him. He was beginning to wonder if the healer had secret apple orchards to supply both the knights and her cravings. "Why?" was the simple question he voiced as he watched Gueneviere and the girl called Nadège engage in a short but vicious series of blows before they returned to the careful circling of each other. Arthur knew that his wife was a warrior. He'd watched her bloodied and brutal at Badon Hill. But for long months she had been his queen, tasked with the running of the country while he went on patrols. This was release, he realized.

"She needs it," affirmed Brigid, eyes on the two women. "Hey!" she shouted, suddenly straightening on the wall. "No maiming! I'll not be stitching up the two of you if you slice off limbs!" she warned the women before settling back to nibbling on the apple.

Arthur chuckled. "You approve of this?" he asked, knowing how protective his healer was of her patients.

Brigid shrugged. "They're big girls. And they know better than to kill each other. Else they'll have me to deal with."

"You can resurrect the dead?" came the soft question from Gawain from her elbow.

Brigid turned and smiled up at the golden-haired knight, offering him an apple, which he accepted. "No, but I know enough curses to keep the dead busy," she replied.

"Where do you get these apples?" asked Arthur, asking a question that had been bothered him for months.

Brigid chuckled and lowered herself carefully off the wall. "I have my sources," she replied cryptically, leaving her basket behind. "You two!" she shouted, pointing to Nadège and Gueneviere. "Enough!"

Nadège and Gueneviere stood panting, holding their swords but not brandishing them. "But it was just getting fun," breathed Gueneviere as the healer began to check the shallow cuts that peppered her arms, torso and legs. Satisfied that none were life-threatening, Brigid turned her attention to the Sarmatian women in turn, pronouncing them healthy enough to avoid her treatment beyond a quick smearing of honey and bandages wrapped around their injured body parts, which was done immediately after a quick but thorough washing.

Tristan watched the women take their leave of the queen. The Sarmatian women spoke briefly among themselves then parted ways, the girls called Stasja and Zaria heading towards the tavern while the girl Nadège instead headed towards the battlements. He noted the tender look that was directed towards the younger women by Nadège before she began to climb to the top of the fortress wall.

"Hard to believe she was a slave," murmured Dagonet from beside him, his hands laced around Brigid's very round belly.

Tristan glanced to the side and noted the peaceful looks on both healers, Brigid's head leaning back against Dagonet's chest. He was still amazed that his friend had found a woman who not only wasn't afraid of any of them but also loved them all unconditionally, the tall Sarmatian best of all. "Not so hard, brother." His eyes followed the dark-haired girl as she strode along the wall and out of sight. "Not so hard at all."

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Gawain woke restless, an unusual situation for the golden-haired knight. Usually he was the placid member of their band, always ready with rumbling humor and brotherly advice. He prowled the corridors of the fortress like the big cat he was sometimes compared to.

As he'd passed the doors to the interior gardens, he heard a snatch of a lullaby. Pausing, he'd listened. Drawn as if a moth to a flame, he'd pushed open the doors and stepped into the moonlit garden. The night air swirled around him, puffs of wind buffeting his bare torso. He listened but the song had stopped. Sighing, he started back towards the door, convinced that his sleep addled brain had played tricks on his ears. Suddenly the song began again and he turned around again, padding across the soft grass towards the sound, his toes tickling the blades of grass.

The sound trickled from behind a low wall that extended from the fortress into the garden and he slowly edged around it. His blue eyes scanned the area, alighting on the girl called Stasja. She was leaning against the stones, eyes closed and mouth forming the words of the old Sarmatian song.

"Very beautiful," he offered, slowly sinking to the ground with his legs stretched out in front of him. For the first time, he allowed his blue eyes to drink in her visage. Midnight-black hair curled over her shoulders and hung over her breasts. Her body, rounded but petite, was clad in a thin linen shift that did little to hide her body as it was seated on the grass. Her eyes watched him as he perused her form, their honey depths unreadable in the moonlight.

"Thank you," came the soft reply from Stasja. "I did not think anyone would be awake," she offered as explanation for her singing. "I hope it did not disturb you with my song."

Gawain shook his head and threw his head back, eyes studying the stars above him. For the first time in a long time he felt his body uncoil, muscles relaxing as his mind wandered through the cosmos.

"What do you remember of home?" came the soft question from slightly closer.

Tilting his head back down and opening his blue eyes, he found that the woman had scooted across the grass to within a few feet of him. Her cheek rested against her shift-clad knees and her golden-brown eyes were fixed on him. She looked young and not for the first time Gawain had to wonder at the true age of any of the Sarmatian women who had come to the fortress. "I remember grasses as far as the eye can see. I remember skies so blue that it puts the ocean to shame." He paused, looking at the girl before him. She had closed her eyes, her slim body swaying softly with his words. "I remember my mother singing a song like the one that you sang," he admitted.

Stasja opened her eyes and offered a tiny smile. "As did mine. Do you know what I remember?" she asked.

Gawain shook his head.

"I remember the night. The stars were so bright above that you could reach out and touch them. The wind would blow clean and pure and the grasses would rustle. I remember lying in my bed in our hut and thinking that heaven had to be the night," she admitted, eyes far away.

Gawain was silent, mulling over her words. They sat for long moments facing each other, Stasja with her knees drawn up to her chin and Gawain leaning back on his arms with his legs stretched out before him. The silence was companionable, not oppressive, and neither Sarmatian felt the urge to break it.

"I have stayed overlong," admitted Stasja as she slowly rose to her feet, her shift rustling around her ankles. "Thank you."

Gawain's eyes widened. "For what?"

Stasja chuckled and leaned down, her lips finding his cheek. "For just being here." Straightening, she stepped from the garden and left Gawain alone in the garden.

He had stayed in the garden after Stasja left, his eyes still on the stars as he considered the woman who had left him.


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: More is coming. Really. (Is it just me, or do I repeat myself a lot? Yup, must just be me.) For now, enjoy a little Dag/Brig moment, as well as a few others. And ignore the maniacal laughter in the background.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Eight: Knee

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Stasja leaned forward in her seat at the table, amber eyes roving over the patrons in the tavern. Across from her Zaria sipped a cup of mead, brown eyes alert despite the alcohol, and Nadège drew on a wax tablet with a metal stylus. It apparently was a slow night, though the women employed in this establishment were still overwhelmed. Even nine months after the Saxon defeat, most of the women who had run with the Romans still had not returned and the country girls who tried being barmaids quickly either decided that the men were too rowdy and the hours too long or found themselves a nice Woad boy to marry and settle down with. This meant that Vanora rarely kept any of her barmaids longer than a month. Those that did stay had the hardness of prostitution to them.

So far, none of the knights had made an appearance save Bors, who was cradling Eleven in his arms and humming tunelessly to the boy. However, a variety of shopkeepers, apprentices, and stable boys had taken possession of several tables and already imbibed a good amount of alcohol.

Stasja nudged Nadège's, causing the stylus to skitter across the wax and earning a cross look. The younger girl nodded towards Vanora and Nadège nodded, setting down the drawing she had been doing to rise with the other women. Almost as a unit they moved towards Vanora and moved to stand before her.

"Vanora, give me a tray," coaxed Zaria.

Vanora looked up at Lancelot's sister, confusion on her face. "Why would you need a tray?" she asked, truly befuddled. It didn't help that two of her serving girls were absent and a third had announced happily that she would be wed by the end of the month.

Stasja chuckled as she began to set cups on a tray and lifted it to her shoulder, already heading towards a table of half-drunk stable boys. "Because we're going to help serve," she tossed over her shoulder before she reached the table. With practiced moves she handed out the alcohol, avoiding roving hands with a laugh and returned with the empty cups piled on the tray.

Vanora blinked as each girl took a tray and began to behave as very convincing tavern wenches. She turned to look at Bors, who had finally gotten their last child to sleep. "Are cows flying?" she asked quietly, motioning to the warrior women who had taken up the surprising career of barmaid.

Bors chuckled and handed Eleven to his wife, kissing the tip of her nose as she cradled the baby. "They're Sarmatian," he replied with a shrug and a twinkle in his eyes. "Though, if those girls are going to help, then I can steal my wife for a while," he proposed, drawing his wife towards the staircase at the back of the tavern.

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Thank goodness for Arthur's faithfulness to a day of rest. If nothing else, it ensured that the knights were free from their duties to pursue other passions.

Dagonet watched the shadows play over the ceiling, his hand resting on the shoulder of the rescued Hibernian woman who shared his life and his bed. It had been a whirlwind week and between the Sarmatian women needing looking after and the tasks that he himself was responsible, neither of them had truly had a chance to talk. Now that they were lying together, spent after hours of reexploring each other's bodies, he didn't know what to say.

"What's wrong?" came the soft voice of his wife from where her head rested over his heart. Her hands were curled around him, one hand resting on his hip and one resting on his shoulder.

Dagonet sighed. "Do you know how much I love you?"

Brigid pushed herself up so that she propped up on one elbow. Her grey eyes were quizzical and a small smile played over her lips. "Yes, love. I think the last few hours were testament to that."

Dagonet chuckled, winding his fingers through her dark red hair, then went serious. "I don't know what I would have done if something had happened to you when you rode out to find those girls."

A small frown replaced the smile and Brigid watched her husband's blue eyes in the moonlight. "Nothing happened, Dag. We were fine. You know that I would never do anything to endanger our child."

Dagonet shook his head and rolled onto his side, now facing his wife. He reached out, cupping her cheek in his palm. "I leave for each mission with your kiss on my lips. It's your voice, your touch, your body that gives me the courage to do what must be done. And it's the promise of you that brings me home." He paused, blue eyes searching grey for understanding before he continued. "Do you think that I would be the same if I lost you?"

Brigid swallowed the sob that threatened to burst from her lips and blinked watery eyes. Reaching out, she pulled him to her, capturing her lips with her own. "I promise that I will not go out on my own without telling anyone where I have gone," she breathed.

Dagonet smiled, pulling his bride tighter. "On your honor," he coaxed.

Brigid gasped against his lips as his hands did miraculous things to her body. "On my honor," she repeated, eyes gone from watery to hungry. "Satisfied?"

Dagonet nodded, then chuckled as his wife pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, legs straddling his hips. "Yes, wife, I am satisfied that you will honor your promise," he replied, strong hands bracing his wife as she sat astride him.

"Good."

Dagonet raised an eyebrow even though he could tell what was on his wife's mind from her very readable face. "And why would that be?"

Brigid arched an eyebrow as well and moved atop him, drawing a hissing breath from her husband. "Because I'm tired of talking," she whispered.

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Nadège whacked the back of a stable boy's head as she moved around him, shooting a dark look at the hand that had grabbed her buttocks. "Play nice, boy, or I'll take that hand as payment," she warned, a hint of accent in her words. Striding to the bar, she shot a dirty look at Stasja, who had taken up Vanora's job of pouring the drinks. "Remind me why we're doing this?" she begged, closing her eyes in supplication.

Stasja shot a look at her friend and chuckled. "We've done this before, remember?"

Nadège shook her head and set the newly filled cups back on the tray, turning to the rapidly filling tavern and searching the room for Zaria. "Yes, but last time we didn't let Zaria serve drinks," she growled. Lifting the tray, she began the routine of passing out drinks, tucking coins into her apron, and fetching empty glasses. All the while, the eldest Sarmatian kept an eye on her two friends, making sure that neither woman was being hassled by the patrons too much.

It was mindless and, yes, a little fun. Though Vanora at first had balked at the girls serving in the tavern, she'd been swayed by the fact that (a) the bar did not burn down, (b) no one died, and (c) more money was collected since Nadège, Zaria and Stasja were interested in selling drinks, not themselves.

Of course the first night that the girls ran the tavern none of the knights were present. Well, save Bors, but he didn't really count since as soon as he'd realized that the girls weren't going to destroy his wife's tavern he'd dragged his wife upstairs to their chambers. Tonight would likely be far different since the wenches who entertained men in rooms at the back of the tavern were taking great cares with their makeup and ensuring that any physical delights they had were on offer.

Passing by one of these hard women, Nadège pointed to a table of drovers who were clamoring for a drink. "Get serving them, Nyssa. Those knights aren't here and we need their coin."

Nyssa, a girl probably no older than Nadège but whose body was that of one much older, stuck out her tongue at the Sarmatian and sashayed across the tavern, her hips swinging under her skirt. "I'll take care of who I will," she tossed back over her shoulder as she settled herself at the table with the drovers and suddenly found herself very popular.

Nadège bristled and turned to the bar, finding Stasja with an indulgent smile and a cup of mead at the ready. "How did you know?" she asked as she took a sip, eyes closing in pleasure.

Stasja shrugged. "I've known you for two years, Nadège. You handle sass about as well as your horse handles moldy oats." Amber eyes tracked the movement of their youngest comrade, pursed lips telling the tale of Zaria's activities.

"I don't want to know, do I," muttered Nadège, stubbornly facing away from the main room of the tavern. Sighing, she turned, cup still at her lips, and allowed her blue eyes to take in the room. Oh no, she thought, closing her eyes. Zaria's in a dress. Gods above preserve us.

"A drink for the conquering heroes!" shouted Lancelot as he strode into the tavern and took a seat at a table. Reaching out, he grabbed the nearest girl in a dress and pulled her onto his knee. "Now, Galahad, we must discuss your taste in women," scolded the ladies' man.

Galahad swallowed a chuckle as he noted the identity of the girl on Lancelot's knee. He nudged Gawain, who pressed a hand over his mouth to hold in his laughter. "Um, Lancelot?" the youngest knight started, motioning to the girl on Lancelot's knee.

"Welcome to the tavern, dear brother," whispered Zaria from her perch on Lancelot's knee.

Lancelot stiffened, turned and scrambled away from Zaria as if burned. In his haste to no longer hold his little sister on his knee in such an intimate manner, he accidentally let her fall backwards onto the ground.

Zaria chuckled from her spot on the ground, rubbing her now sore bottom through her skirt. "You should be more careful who you take to your knee, brother," she teased, starting to rise.


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: _Voda_ is vodka. That's all I'm saying about this chapter. It's really a continuation of the end of chapter seven and continues with the boys. Enjoy. Oh, and feedback, feedback, feedback. The more you give, the quicker I write. Yeah, it really does work that way.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Nine: Voda

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Lancelot glared after his little sister, suddenly reminded of all the times in their village when she had gotten the better of him and made him feel foolish. It hadn't happened very often, he rationalized, but each instance had been memorable. "I was trying to prove a point," he ground out the explanation, turning back to his still chuckling friends. He felt a cup being pushed into his hand and risked a look up.

Nadège was smiling apologetically down at him before passing out the rest of the cups of ale on her tray and setting a pitcher of ale on the table. "Drink," she ordered before she headed back to the bar.

Galahad chuckled and took a sip of ale. "Well, if you're point was that you had picked a beautiful woman, I'd have to agree."

Lancelot nodded then narrowed his eyes at his brother in arms. "You think my little sister is beautiful?" he growled threateningly.

Galahad blushed and took a deeper gulp of ale.

Gawain chuckled and decided to try to rescue his younger friend. "Lancelot, your sister is a beautiful woman. As are they all," he added, eyes following a dark haired girl with soft golden eyes who was talking with the other Sarmatian women across the tavern. "And anyone who's seen you with Fulcina knows that you do not take the women here back to your rooms."

Lancelot nodded and took a sip of his ale. "She's talking about inviting Alecto to visit," he admitted, changing the subject.

Gawain's eyes widened. "Fulcina? Why?"  
Lancelot shrugged. "She misses him. And we're no longer facing Saxon hordes coming from the North.

Galahad frowned. "No. We now have the Angles to the North, the Celts to the West, and the Saxons to the South. This is an improvement how?" came the sarcastic question.

Lancelot again shrugged, turning brown eyes to follow his sister. He watched with a smile from across the room as Nadège cornered Zaria away from the patrons and, if the body language was anything to go by, gave the younger woman a stern lecture on teasing older brothers.

Gawain leaned forward, not for the first time amazed at the change in the womanizer of their group. "Will you marry Fulcina?"

Lancelot turned back, brown eyes suddenly shadowed. "I've asked. She says that there is no reason to ruin what we have. I believe that she fears that if we wed I'll become Marius."

Galahad shook his head and slammed his cup down on the table. "You're not some pig-faced Christian," he growled. A tap on his shoulder stopped any further grumbling and he looked up to find Zaria holding a loaf of bread out to him with a gentle smile.

"Here. If you're going to drink like that, you'll need to eat something," she confided, pressing the loaf into Galahad's hands and then hurrying back towards the bar where Nadège and Stasja stood waiting.

Galahad gaped after the girl, watching her as she headed to the bar and a new tray of drinks.

"Galahad!" shouted Lancelot and Gawain, trying to get the younger man's attention.

"Give it up," advised Bors as he dropped onto the bench beside Lancelot and poured ale into a cup. He took a gulp and let out a satisfied sigh. "Those girls have got everyone's attention," he added.

Gawain raised an eyebrow. "How so?"  
"Those drovers haven't left since they got here four hours ago. They've spent a month's wages and they're not done yet. They were here last night too." He leaned back, stretching the tired muscles in his back. "Same goes for the rest of the men in here. It ain't just Nyssa and Elspeth and their womanly charms," he added, motioning to the two women who prostituted themselves in the rooms at the back of the tavern, "that's keeping them here."

Lancelot took a final gulp of his ale and stood from the bench. "Just wait 'til Dag let's Brigid back in the kitchens," he advised. "Then none of us will be able to find a table."

Bors rubbed his stomach and grinned. "With any luck that baby will be born in a week."

Galahad frowned. "Is that why she hasn't been cooking?" He hadn't realized until they'd come back from their patrol that Dagonet's wife was not cooking and even then he had assumed it had something to do with her patients.

Gawain nodded. "Aye. Dag's decided that she shouldn't be on her feet for the last weeks of her pregnancy. I heard them arguing about it the other night."

"I don't think that was arguing," offered the quiet scout from his patch of wall where he was leaning. His eyes were on the drovers, who were making a game of pinching or grabbing or slapping at the body parts of the women serving them. He started to move to intercede when one of the boys seized a passing Stasja and began to manhandle the young woman. Suddenly Nadège was standing behind the man, an evil-looking blade pressed to his throat. Even from across the tavern he could see what she was saying, if not hear it. He had to give the eldest woman credit for very creative death threats. Moments later Stasja was once again righted and hurrying away and the blade tucked back in its sheath at Nadège's hip.

The air seemed to settle around the table of the drovers as they settled back into their drinking, glad that their numbers had not been diminished by the tiny dark-haired woman.

"What does Vanora think of this?" asked Galahad, motioning towards the Sarmatian women who were bustling around the tavern. He watched as the red-haired tavern owner chatted with the baker, Eleven balanced on her hip. The boy had wrapped his mother's hair around his fist and periodically tugged on the lock to draw his mother's attention.

Bors laughed and poured himself another mug of ale. "My Van is just happy that the girls aren't trying to bed every man here. That and the fact that they gave her a tidy sum last night."  
That earned a frown from Gawain. "So this is what they intend to do while they are here?" he asked, motioning to the tavern itself. Somehow tavern wench did not seem an appropriate vocation for a Sarmatian woman.

Bors shook his head and took another gulp. "I heard them talking to Van. That girl Nadège is a blacksmith."

"Girls can't be blacksmiths," scoffed Galahad.

The eldest knight shrugged. "All I know is the Edric's hired her on as his apprentice," he confided. That gave pause to all the knights. Edric was an old bastard to be sure, but he was a brilliant blacksmith. A former knight from their homeland, he'd stayed at the fortress with his Briton wife, much like Bors. Unlike Bors, however, Edric had lost his wife early in childbirth and had never remarried, becoming more belligerent with each passing year. And if Edric, quite possibly the most evil-tempered man in the fortress, was willing to put up with the dark-haired woman, she had to be a fine blacksmith in her own right.

"So, what about the others?" asked Gawain, leaning forward across the table. Somehow he didn't see the soft woman singing lullabies in a garden as a blacksmith.

"Well, Stasja's a seamstress. She mended one of One's gowns with not a complaint and it looked good as new. And that Zaria is a brewer." He glanced furtively at his wife before reaching into his jerkin and pulling out a wineskin. "Here," he handed it to Lancelot.

The curly-haired knight raised an eyebrow at Bors and asked in a bored voice, "What is that?"

Bors pressed it into his friend's hand, eyes still on Vanora. Thankfully, his wife was still in deep conversation with the baker. "Just try it."

Lancelot warily uncorked the skin and sniffed the opening. There was no smell and he could almost swear that Bors was trying to give him water. Smirking, he took a gulp from the skin. Coughing, he handed the flask to Gawain. "What is that?" he breathed in a alcohol-roughened voice, reaching for his ale and downing a gulp to soothe his sudden coughing fit. Whatever it was that he had drunk had a definite kick.

Bors grinned triumphantly. "That is _voda _and it's this tavern's new secret weapon," he announced proudly. He poked Lancelot in the chest before crossing his arms over his chest. "Your sister is a miracle. Never knew that you could get that out of fermented grain." He watched as Gawain took a pull from the skin and grinned. "Remind you of Kay's brew?" prompted Bors.

Gawain grinned and nodded, handing the skin to Galahad. He watched as his friend took a pull from the skin and started coughing. Galahad had never been able to stand Kay's brew, though this stuff was surprisingly smooth. Gawain whacked Galahad's back to clear the cough and took the skin from the younger man's fingers, nervous that the precious liquid would be spilled. Handing it to Tristan, he watched as the scout took a long drink from the skin.

Bors glanced over his shoulder, seeing his wife's eyes narrowing as she marched across the tavern to the table of knights. "Love, how are you feeling?" he asked, rising from the bench and turning to his wife, pulling she and Eleven into an embrace in an attempt to distract his wife from the wineskin being passed between the knights.

"What are you doing with that brew?" Vanora demanded, swatting at Bors's chest. "You know that we've got a limited supply until Zaria can make more." She held her hand out for the skin and waited for Tristan to hand the skin over. There was a battle of wills between the scout and the tavern owner and with a grunt Tristan let the skin go. "Thank you. Now, all of you behave." She kissed Bors's cheek and hurried away with the wineskin.

"Where does she keep it?" asked Tristan.

"Under the stairs."

"Excellent."


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Do you all have any idea how much all of your reviews mean to the writing of this story? I do apologize that it took me a few days to write this chapter, but I had a bit of trouble getting this one put together. But more is coming because the story spigot is once again in the "ON" position. Soon we'll be dealing with Bors, Ganis, and the boys again. I promise.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Ten: Choices

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"Bors!"

The eldest knight groaned and rolled over, gazing with bloodshot eyes at his wife. Her hands were fists and rested on her hips, her gaze bored into his skull. "Where's the voda?" she demanded.

Bors reached for the covers and tried to pull them over his head, blocking out his wife. The thick wool blankets were pulled from his fingers and he found himself lying in bed as naked as the day he was born. "Hey! It's cold," he muttered, reaching for the blankets held in his wife's hand.

Vanora raked her gaze from head to toe down her husband's body then back up to meet his dark eyes. "Again, where is the voda?"

Bors grimaced and sat up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. His head fell into his hands as he felt the hangover clanging in his skull. He didn't know how many of those skins he'd drunk from but he was sure that it was more than he should have. "We drank it," he admitted, cupping his forehead and swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat.

Vanora groaned and dropped onto the bed next to her husband. "All of it?" she asked plaintively.

Bors shook his head. "But most of it. I'll talk to Zaria. See if she can get started on another batch." He suddenly felt very remorseful, even though the night before it had been more about boys being boys.

Vanora sighed, rubbing her husband's back in small circles. After fifteen years together, she couldn't be angry with him over something like this. "I already sent One to speak with her. Zaria said that she should have another batch ready in a week. In the meantime, we wait."

Bors looked up with bleary eyes. "I'm sorry," he admitted.

Vanora chuckled. "We knew we didn't have enough for more than a taste. And if the boys liked it, they'll spread that word around," she said thoughtfully. She ran her fingertips down her husband's spine. "So, in all honesty, you did us a favor."

Bors laughed then groaned. He'd matched Tristan and Gawain shot for shot of the voda, the knights chuckling at the fact that Galahad had collapsed face down on the tavern table long before the end of the drinking contest. Now that he thought about it, Galahad may have been the smartest of them all, since what he'd consumed would likely not cause this infernal banging in the head to be shared by the youngest knight. He'd watched Gawain staggering towards his quarters, dragging a sluggish Galahad behind him. Tristan, still in possession of that lethal grace he was so well known for, had followed behind the two knights, his gaze shadowed.

He wondered what the condition of the other knights was. Lancelot had declined the contest, instead heading for the rooms occupied by his lover. Gawain would likely roar like the lion that he was oft-compared to and try to stay in his room, hiding from the sunlight. Galahad would likely find himself the sole knight, other than Dagonet, who had all his faculties. Then again, perhaps he should not discount Tristan. Though the scout rarely imbibed, there was a reason that he had been able to walk without assistance or hindrance to his own rooms after the end of the night.

Dropping back into bed, he pulled the coverlet over his head.

"Five more minutes."

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Tristan watched as the blacksmith took his seat, favoring his left leg from long-ago injuries. The older man, now some ten years since the end of his service, was requesting the new house specialty. The scout watched as Edric poured the voda down his throat and then slammed the cup down onto the tabletop, motioning for one of the wenches to bring more. The messy-braided scout had stayed away from the smithy though he'd burned with curiosity as to the skill of his fellow Amazone. Tristan had not been particularly surprised that she shaped metal, considering how comfortable she was wielding that dagger nestled at her hip. But he had been surprised at Edric.

Edric was a mystery to most of the fortress. He was taller and wider than Dagonet, though like Dagonet his mass was pure muscle. He had a thick mane of graying black hair that hung past his shoulders and a beard so thick it obscured the lower half of his face. No one would think that Edric was a handsome man unless they were not only blind but also deaf and without the sense of smell.

And yet Nadège had apparently found a home in the smithy and a way into the smith's affections. Each morning well before dawn she strode purposely across the length of the fortress wall to the smithy from the quarters allotted her. He had watched her pick her way through the winding streets of Castellus since that first morning of her employment, a cloak draped over her small form and her clothes those of a boy. He kept to the shadows, watching and following to ensure that the woman was not interfered with. Each night he repeated the journey in the other direction, still shadowing the Amazone woman. He wasn't sure why he was playing guardian to Nadège. She would not appreciate his efforts, instead seeing his protection as smothering. And he was quite aware that the woman who stood at just past his chin was capable of taking care of herself.

"Join me," ordered Edric, scowling at the scout who watched him with those damning dark eyes.

Tristan nodded slightly and crossed the short distance to Edric's table, dropping gracefully onto the bench opposite the blacksmith. A cup was pressed into his hand and he looked up through his braids to find Stasja walking away, empty tray banging against her thigh as she walked back to the bar.

"You're tracking my apprentice. Have been for over a week," announced Edric, voice rumbling lowly.

Tristan didn't respond, instead sipping the cup of voda. He respected Edric as a blacksmith and didn't want to get into an argument with the man.

"What are your intentions towards her?" demanded Edric, setting down his empty cup on the tabletop and again motioning for a refill.

Tristan leaned back, arms crossed over his chest and arched an eyebrow. "What are yours?" replied Tristan, his voice soft enough that had Edric not been listening for it he would have missed the words. They waited while Stasja set fresh cups of voda on the table and had retreated with the empty glasses before continuing their conversation.

Edric growled. "She'll not have me. Said kissing me was like kissing her brother." He paused, stroking his beard. "Have to admit, wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be."

Tristan glared at his old comrade. _I will not hit him_, Tristan thought fiercely to himself.

"Not that the girl can't kiss. But there was no spark. So, I'll ask again, what are your intentions towards my apprentice?"

Tristan let his eyes slide to the bar where he noticed that Nadège had yet to make an appearance. _Good_, he thought. He didn't want any of this conversation to be overheard by the female smith. "She's of my tribe."

Edric stared at the scout with his remaining eye, rubbing at the patch over his long destroyed left eye. "And my horse shits gold nuggets," he replied sarcastically. "That's not the reason and we both know it.."

Tristan's lips remained clamped shut.

"Don't hurt her. If you do, you'll have me to answer to," he warned, swinging his good leg over the bench and getting to his feet. He rubbed at his thigh through his breeches, trying to soothe the pain from old wounds. He nodded to the scout and headed towards the bar, a handful of coins in his hand. Reaching Stasja, he dropped the coins into her palm with a gruff smile.

Tristan watched Edric leave the tavern, mulling over the odd conversation he had just participated in. Soon the brown eyed scout followed, the night swathing him in its darkness. He would go to the wall to think, he decided. The noise of the tavern would do nothing to make sense of his thoughts and Nadège was the last person he needed to see at this moment.

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Gawain leaned back against the edge of the table in the courtyard, head thrown back to allow the tepid sunlight to warm his face. Beside him he heard Galahad sigh. Turning his head, eyes still closed, he waited for his younger friend to talk about whatever was bothering him.

"Ever wonder what it would have been like to go home?" the dark-haired young man asked wistfully.

Gawain smiled, eyes still shut. "Every day ," he admitted, turning his head back towards the sun. He finally allowed his eyes to open, watching as a cloud skittered in front of the sun. "What do you think we would have been doing right now?" he asked idly, tugging at a string on his jerkin that had been bothering him. If he was so inclined, he supposed he could use it as an excuse to seek out little Stasja.

Galahad shrugged, eyes still shut against the sun. "Whatever it was, I doubt we would be outside a tavern lying back in the sun. What was it that we had to do today?"

Gawain chuckled. Arthur had agreed with Gueneviere that another patrol so soon after their last one, and with no reports of Saxon attacks, would be wasteful. Well, that, and the fact that Dagonet wanted to stay close to his wife to monitor her condition. As Fulcina and Vanora had chided Dagonet, childbirth was a normal situation for women and having a husband hovering over the expectant mother didn't make the baby come any quicker or with less pain. Of course, Dagonet ignored the women and just kept his wife within arm's reach. It was becoming apparent that the fortress's healer was chafing under the constant attention and had taken to begging her husband's commander for peace. Which was why, under orders from Arthur, Dagonet and Bors were out hunting for the day, leaving their wives to their own devices. As for the other knights, they'd been left to their own devices as well.

The tawny maned knight allowed his blue eyes to wander to the tavern where the wives of the knights were talking with Fulcina at one of the tables. Brigid was kneading some sort of bread as she spoke, streaks of flour on her forehead and cheeks and a dusting of flour on her gown as she leaned her hips against the table and rested her belly on the tabletop. Fulcina was stirring something in a bowl, listening and periodically responding with her soft voice or a laugh. And Vanora was nursing Eleven, cooing to the boy and periodically interjecting a comment in that rich voice that had captured Bors's heart.

"What do you think they are talking about?" asked Galahad, following his older friend's gaze. He'd always been curious as to the thought processes of the women of the fort. The motivations of women like Nyssa and Elspeth was easy-they wanted money in return for access to their body and their company. But what made the women of Sarmatia, or for that matter the women who loved the knights, tick? What made Vanora stand by Bors through eleven children and fifteen years? The red-haired woman had certainly had other offers that didn't involve a Sarmatian beholden to Rome and forbidden to marry. If the Sarmatians were so irresistible, he thought irritably, then why were there three that had no one in particular to claim?

Gawain shrugged and straightened on the bench. "No idea. But whatever it is, they seem to be having fun." He got to his feet, rolling his neck and shoulders to loosen the muscles. "Come on. Let's go the sparring field."

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Lancelot leaned back against the low stone wall, legs stretched out straight in front of him in the grass as he watched his little sister. Every so often he would shout either encouragement or critique. It was obvious that his little sister knew the way around a sword. He watched as Nadège and Stasja turned on Zaria, swords swinging in lethal arcs. He had started to his feet the first time this had happened but been warned off with a quick head shake from Nadège. Soon he realized that this was part of their training. With three women sparring, either one would be left out if they paired off or each had to fight two at a time. It was good training.

Each woman had a different strength. Zaria had a particular skill for quick attacks that drove the other women back with stumbling steps. Stasja was a master of defense, blocking every attack with quick movements that stymied her opponent. And Nadège had a lethal grace that reminded the former lothario of Tristan. The eldest of the women very obviously had trained the other two, the younger women mimicking the smallest of them in their movements.

The sound of approaching footsteps across the grass alerted Lancelot that he would have company. Lifting his eyes, he found himself watching Galahad and Gawain as they came to a halt beside him. Both men were dressed for sparring and carrying the weapons they would be using. Behind them stood Jols, more weapons stacked in his arms.

"How long have they been going at it?" asked Galahad. He watched as Zaria spun away from Nadège's attack, kicking out and catching the smaller woman's chin with her foot. The older woman stumbled back, rubbing her chin, before offering a grin and renewing her attack with even more intensity. Stasja, who had also been attacking Zaria, suddenly turned on Nadège, slashing at her friend.

"For about an hour now," replied Lancelot, head lolling back to rest on the wall at his back.

Gawain rubbed his jaw, watching as Stasja took a kick to the jaw from Nadège before the older woman once again turned her attention to Zaria. From what he could see, their fighting style was designed to do the most amount of damage with the least expense on their end. Whatever would give them the most reach was the order of the day as the women used their whole bodies to battle. What they wouldn't suffer on the battlefield they seemed perfectly happy to incur in training. Already Stasja sported a cut over her brow that had seeped blood into her eye while Nadège and Zaria both were peppered with cuts and bruises. Nadège would have a black eye from a punch dealt by Stasja, the flesh already starting to swell.

"They're quite good," offered Jols as he set the weapons on the ground. He watched as the women broke off their attacks against each other at a signal from Nadège and started back towards Zaria's brother.

Lancelot clapped as the women neared him, his brown eyes assessing their conditions. "You'll need stitches," he advised Stasja, motioning to her eye.

Stasja nodded, fingers pressed to the wound to staunch the bleeding. "The risks of playing with swords around Nadège," she teased.

Nadège growled and shoved her sword back into its sheath at her back and her daggers back into the sheaths at her hip and ankles. "I'm going back to work," she bit out, stomping away from the field towards the smithy.

Stasja chuckled, pulling her fingers away from the now staunched cut and grimacing at the blood coating her fingers. "She never does like to be reminded that she still kicks our asses," she offered to Zaria as she wiped her fingers on her breeches.

Gawain stepped to the dark-haired girl, fingers going to the cut and inspecting it. He frowned at the depth of the cut, then looked down at the girl who he was touching. She looked startled and there was an emotion he couldn't define in her amber eyes. "Come on. Let's get you to Brigid," he suggested, tugging her off the practice field with her hand enclosed in his grip.

Zaria watched her friend being dragged behind the golden knight and burst out laughing. "I better go check on Nadège. She can get a little tetchy when one of us gets hurt," she admitted, sliding her swords back into their sheaths and then sheathing her daggers. Rolling her head on her neck, she started towards the smithy.

Galahad fell in step with the blonde woman, grinning at the surprised expression on Lancelot's sister. "I might as well come along. I'm heading that way."

Zaria nodded carefully. "Riiiiggghhhttt," she replied in disbelief.

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Lancelot frowned at his lover, watching as Fulcina cleaned the blood off Stasja's face. Brigid was holding a needle in the flame of a candle and would be threading catgut through the needle's eye. Vanora, meanwhile, had set Eleven in a cradle at her chair and was gently rocking it back and forth with movements of her foot against the rocker as she hummed a lullaby.

"She's too young," complained Lancelot, watching his lover's sure movements. He noticed that Stasja didn't hiss in pain or complain, though her eyes surely showed her discomfort.

Vanora chuckled at the knight's comment. "I was thirteen when Bors first had me," she reminded the knight. "Fulcina was wed at twelve to Marius," she added, motioning to the Roman woman who had moved away from Stasja to allow the healer to stitch the wound closed.

Brigid slid the needle into the girl's flesh with quick and sure movements. "I'm the exception, Lancelot. But then again, I was never meant to marry. I was nineteen summers when I met your brother knight," she reminded, pulling the catgut taught as she finished the last stitch. Tying it, she sliced off the excess catgut with her knife and leaned back. "Most girls marry as soon as they become women."

"She's barely twenty," he growled.

"She turned twenty just before we came," added Stasja as she touched the stitches. The scar would be tiny with the tight careful stitches, she decided, and nodded her thanks to the healer and the other women around her. Her golden eyes slid to where Gawain sat beside Brigid, blue eyes fixed on her. She shifted in discomfort under his gaze, deciding that silence was the best action.

Brigid chuckled as she put away her healing kit. "She's not married and no one has asked for her hand, sir knight," she reminded. "Do not start worrying about what has not happened," she advised, hands resting on her belly.

Lancelot shook his head and stood. His hand dropped onto Fulcina's shoulder and the Roman looked up at her lover, brown eyes gentle. Sighing, he headed out of the tavern.

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Tristan loosened the girth of the saddle around his horse's belly, fingers skating softly over the sweaty coat of his dappled grey. A good ride had been just what he needed to clear his head. Lifting the saddle off the back of his stallion, he rested it on a sawhorse and turned back to his horse. Sure fingers checked the grey for injuries and soreness as he circled the horse, fingers tracing the lines of the horse.

"Ah, Wasgergi," he whispered, stroking the horse's nose. The horse snuffled at his hand then turned his eyes back to the other residents of the stable, eying a black mare with interest. "So, already looking for companionship?"

"Wasgergi?" asked Nadège as she strolled into the stables and to the black mare that Tristan's horse showed so much interest in. "Interesting name for a horse," she muttered, stepping into the stall with her mare and letting the horse snuffle at her hair. "Dzerassa, my love," she murmured soothingly.

Tristan's eyebrow rose at the name she called her horse. So, he thought, hiding the grin that came to him by turning back to his horse and away from the woman, they had each picked the name of a godly pair of lovers for their mount. Interesting. He continued with the tending of his horse, watching out of the corner of his eye as the blacksmith's apprentice tended to her mare. She was careful but thorough, stroking mane and flank with searching fingers and wary eyes. She kept up a soft dialogue with the horse that Tristan could not make out, responding to each snort and whicker with gentle words as she moved.

Tristan, finished with tending to Wasgergi, carried the saddle to the tackroom and set to caring for the leather. Checking for tears and cracks, he worked in fastidious silence. Seeing that some of the metalwork might require the blacksmith's tending, he lifted the saddle back up and carried it out into the sunlight. He strode through the streets, dark appearance and intimidating stare causing many to step to either side of him to let him pass unhindered.

Stepping into the smithy, he watched Edric working at the anvil, metal clanging loudly as he worked. He set the saddle down on one of the tables, waiting silently. Edric soon looked up, green eye sizing up the man in his shop.

"Saddle needs work," explained Tristan, voice gruff.

Edric nodded and set down his tools to stride to the saddle. He lifted the leather, looking at the bindings and metalwork tracing the saddle. The metal was stressed and would fail soon. "I can have it done in two days," he advised, looking up to meet the scout's gaze.

Tristan nodded and started towards the door.

Edric shook his head as he went back to work, thanking the gods that he had been born Aorsi, not Amazone.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Believe it or not, but this chapter kind of came out of nowhere. Again, thank you to my reviewers. See, feed me reviews and I feed you not only responses but more story. Yay! We have a symbiotic relationship!

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Eleven: Bets

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Galahad swung, grinning as his opponent blocked his swing. The girl he was sparring against gave him a cocky grin reminiscent of her brother and spun away, giving her more room to maneuver. He'd decided to see just how good this girl was. He'd watched this girl sparring with her friends, the way that she moved, darting, ducking, spinning and kicking. He'd watched her laughing at the tavern at some ribald joke and come back with her own, much to her brother's chagrin. He'd watched her hard at work and silent, brewing the voda that had become a staple at the tavern. And he'd watched her when they sat together, just being silent.

But watching didn't tell him what went on in the mind of Zaria of the Iazyges. So, being a warrior, he'd decided to use the most practical manner of getting to know another person: beat the crap out of them in battle. He parried a blow to his head with her staff and landed his own blow to her shoulder, knocking the blonde woman back a step.

Zaria checked her shoulder, satisfied that the skin was simply was going to bruise and was not broken, then restarted her attack. She allowed her brown eyes to slide to the wall where her friends watched with neutral expressions, flanking either side of an also seated Gawain. She could see the gears working in Nadège's brain. The eldest of them was still supremely overprotective and was sharpening the blade of her dagger while watching the sparring match. Whispering a silent prayer to whichever gods were listening that Nadège would not try to kill Galahad, she turned her attention fully back to the man who was trying to beat her into unconsciousness, and doing a fairly good job of it.

Stasja leaned back against the wall, relaxing the muscles that she had used in sparring with Nadège. "He's quite good," she offered, allowing her golden eyes to drift shut. When they'd agree to a bet with Gawain on which of the youngest would win, Nadège and Stasja hadn't realized Zaria's opponent actually knew his way around a staff. This would be interesting, she decided.

"And he's giving Zaria a run for her money," added Gawain, his tone teasing. He didn't add that it was lucky for the youngest knight that his sparring partner's brother was on patrol with Tristan.

The only reply from the elder woman was a grunt.

"You are not going to kill him," ordered Stasja, finally allowing her eyes to open and fixing a glare on her elder friend. "Even if we end up in gowns after this," she added with a grin.

Nadège winced and held up her hands in surrender. "He's not a Christian and he's not a priest, so I suppose you're right," she muttered, leaning back against the wall again. "But does he have to look at her like that?" she asked plaintively, arms crossed over her chest.

Stasja chuckled. "Nadège, she's a grown woman. You can't protect us forever."

Nadège sighed. "I can try," she replied.

Stasja shook her head, allowing her eyes to once again drift shut. "We're not the same women you found years ago, Nadège. We're stronger, meaner and better looking now. You taught us well."

Nadège didn't reply as she watched Galahad and Zaria continue to circle each other. She watched as Galahad started a flurry of hits that drove Zaria back several yards, her own staff moving to try to block his hits with little success. The dark-haired woman winced as one of those hits struck Zaria in the temple, dropping the blonde woman to the ground. Starting to rise, she felt fingers grip her arm and draw her back down. She looked at Gawain, whose fingers wrapped around her arm, then to the woman seated beside him, gaze expectant.

Stasja glared at Nadège, the look returned by the older woman. "Let them be, Nadège. They can sort this out themselves," she added.

On the sparring field, Galahad dropped to the ground beside the stunned woman he had just dropped. "Are you alright?"

Zaria rubbed her forehead, trying to clear the stars that twinkled before her eyes. "Fine except for the shattering headache," she muttered in reply.

Galahad leaned closer, eyes inspecting the bump growing on her temple. "I'm sorry," he offered softly, long fingers brushing lightly over the goose-egg that was rising on her head.

Zaria stared up at the dark-haired man who had just done a very decent job of kicking her ass and smiled. "My fault. Nadège keeps telling me I need to practice with the staff more. Says that I'm too dependent on my bow and sword," she admitted as he accepted his hand and his help in righting herself. Finally on her feet, she gripped his arm for balance, shaking her head to clear the stars still in her vision.

Galahad chuckled, then looked to the three at the wall. He could tell by the expression on Gawain's face that something interesting had transpired at the low wall. "She's alright," he called, hand still bracing Zaria's arm.

Stasja stepped to the golden-haired woman, amber eyes inspecting the bump on the youngest woman's head. No blood, just a bump. "You need to work on your staff work," she scolded, stepping back from the pair.

"Nice job, sir knight," offered Nadège before turning blue eyes on the blonde fighter. "Zaria, you're going to be doing a lot more practice with that staff," she motioned to the staff that lay on the ground. "Come on, Stasja, Zaria, to the tavern we go."

Galahad scratched his head and watched the three women stride off the field. "Did I miss something?" he asked, resting the staff on his shoulder as he fell in step with Gawain.

Gawain chuckled as he watched the three breech-clad women walking towards their quarters. "A little wager, brother. Thank the Gods you won," he added.

"Gawain, I'm a knight. If I can't win a simple sparring match with staffs I'd be the laughingstock of Castellus," Galahad replied. He then arched an eyebrow in silent question, waiting for his golden-haired friend to explain further.

"Zaria's the only one of them we've ever seen in a dress, correct?"

Galahad nodded.

"Ever wonder what the others would look like in one?"

Galahad shrugged.

Gawain chuckled. "Both of them will be wearing a dress to the tavern this evening." He brushed at some dirt on his breeches and I'm just glad that you won. I'd have looked horrible in a dress."

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The night had been relatively uneventful, Vanora decided as she wiped a glass down with a cloth, watching Nadège scrubbing the dishes in the water with a vicious motion. The eldest of the Sarmatian women had retreated to kitchen duty to cool her temper after nearly taken the arm off a drover who got a little too friendly in his drunken groping. Watching the man cradling his arm, a rag pressed to the long jagged cut that rent his skin from elbow to wrist, Vanora allowed herself a chuckle as she watched Tristan stalk silently up to the man. Moments later the drover was dragged out of the tavern, the scout making sure that his quiet words were clearly understood by the drunkard before the wounded man stumbled into the darkness.

Vanora watched as the scout reclaimed his spot in the corner and began to once again peel his apple. The scout and Lancelot had returned from their quick scouting mission and appeared at the tavern just as the lanterns were being lit to ward off the inky darkness of night.

While Gawain and Galahad teased Stasja for wearing a gown, they seemed to have enough self-preservation not to challenge Nadège. No, Vanora thought with a smile, that honor was left to her tribe member to do. The only reaction that Tristan had shown to Nadège's snug blue gown was a raised eyebrow. He'd then taken a bite of his apple, dark eyes following the woman as she made her way through the tavern.

Vanora leaned against the bar, sighing in satisfaction at the scene before her. As soon as Brigid's baby was born and the healer was cleared by her husband to start working again, the tavern's cook would be churning out her delicacies. The combination of Zaria's voda and Brigid's cooking would bring even greater fortune to the tavern.

Bors was deep in conversation with Dagonet, whose presence in the tavern was cause for much ale to be drunk. Lancelot, who had been ordered by Fulcina to spend time with his comrades and not her, was discussing something of great importance with Arthur. And Gawain and Galahad had settled into the exciting pastime of throwing their daggers at one of her stools.

Vanora sighed. One of these days, she thought, I'm going to have to tell them not to throw knives at my furniture. For once, all the men were safe and enjoying each others company. She couldn't bother them with frivolous details such as not destroying the furnishings of her tavern.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews. And apologies to all for the first scene. It was written for my husband since he had to put up with comments like Brigid's a lot in the first chapter. As for the rest of the chapter-well, I hope I don't offend anyone too much.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twelve: Watching

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"I hate you."

Dagonet looked up at his wife. She was looking down at her feet, a look of pure fury on her gentle features. "My love?"

Grey eyes watery with tears met his and a sob burst from his wife's lips. "My feet hate me!" she wailed, falling back onto the bed.

Dagonet rose from his chair and stepped to the bed. Crouching before Brigid, he rubbed her feet and slid her slippers onto her feet. The healer straightened and pulled his wife upright. "My love, your feet do not hate you," he soothed, stroking her blood-red hair back from her tear-streaked face.

Brigid shook her head and hiccupped. "Cut them off," she begged. She looked to his axe. "You have an axe," she added hopefully.

Dagonet chuckled and pulled his wife into his arms. "Brigid, your feet will stop swelling once the baby is born."  
The only answer from his wife was a sniffle against his jerkin.

_It was going to be a long day._

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Gawain rotated his neck and then let his head fall back against the wall behind his seat with a dull thud. He watched as Lancelot once again began to roll dice, the ladies man never having been as lucky with the bones as with the women.

Sweeping blue eyes around the tavern, he spotted Galahad deep in conversation with Zaria, their words lost to the din of the tavern. They were so lost in each other that he was sure that they weren't at all aware of the bustle. Smirking, he let his eyes wander again, this time falling upon his commander and king. Arthur was having a conversation with Merlin, the Woad leader, that clearly held deep importance for each of them.

Across the tavern, staying close to the shadows, stood Tristan, an apple in his hands and a knife slicing into the flesh of the fruit. Gawain followed the scout's dark eyes' gaze and found the object of his attention to be Nadège, who was delivering tray after tray of alcohol in concert with Stasja. The eldest of the Sarmatian women seemed completely unaware of the scout's watching, instead keeping her attention on the men she skirted with her trays of alcohol.

Gawain had to wonder if part of the reason why Tristan's gaze followed Nadège was due to the fact that her body was still clad in a gown as a result of her failed wager with Gawain. He then let his eyes go to Stasja, the golden-eyed woman returning his gaze with mirth-filled eyes. He raised his glass in silent salute to the woman, who nodded her head in return before returning to her task of collecting empty cups.

The bench shook as Bors dropped onto the wood. A deep sigh emanated from the eldest of the knights. Gawain turned his head to watch Bors take a sip of ale. The older man seemed to deflate before his eyes, the tension of the evening seeping from his bones. "A good evening?" came Gawain's question.

Bors shrugged, weary eyes wandering over the tavern and its occupants. He grunted as he watched Nadège sweep past Tristan on her way to clear a table abandoned by its drunken occupants. "Those two will be the death of me."

"Why?"

Bors shot a disbelieving look at his comrade. "You could cut the tension between them with a knife. I'm not sure if they're going to kill each other or anyone who comes near them."

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"You cannot be serious!"

Brigid rested her fists on her hips and glared at the blacksmith. "Edric, set down that hammer and come here," she ordered. She watched as the much larger man reluctantly set down his hammer and shuffled towards her. "Come, we better clean that burn and bandage it before it becomes infected."

The blacksmith looked down at the blistering burn on his arm and sighed. He glanced over his shoulder at his apprentice, glad to find that she was once again dressed in leather breeches and a stained and torn tunic. For two weeks to have Nadège in a gown meant for two weeks the Amazone woman was unable to work in the smithy. Edric did not trust that the skirts of her gown would not catch fire around the high heat of the smith and Nadège was concerned that the range of motion of her gown would inhibit her work. Needless to say, neither smith was thrilled with the lack of work on Nadège's part and she had been forbidden from any more bets.

"Nadège, I'll be back as soon as this demon releases me," he motioned to Brigid, earning him a smack to the seat of his pants from the healer. "See how she mistreats me," he muttered as he left the smithy.

Nadège laughed softly as she turned her attention back to the work at hand. Somehow the knights were always requiring attention to some piece of armor, weaponry, or tack. If it was not the knights that brought work then it was the castle itself. Pots, utensils, boxes, and any other thing that had metal on it or was made of metal eventually made its way to the smithy for repair. The work she held in her hand would not save lives or take them. It was a simple box, something that Dagonet had requested be mended for his wife for the baby to be born any day now. She tested the hinge that she had constructed and smiled. She was so enmeshed in her work that she did not hear the soft footsteps of the man stepping into the smithy.

"Edric is not here," came the soft statement of the scout.

Nadège shook her head. "No, sir knight."

"Tristan," corrected the scout.

Nadège paused, blue eyes inspecting brown for a moment before she nodded. "Alright, Tristan." She paused as she savored the way his name rolled off her tongue. "Edric's been kidnapped by the healer. Something about the burns on his arms," she added.

Tristan nodded. He had watched Edric's slow gait as the man reluctantly followed the very pregnant, very touchy healer. Her short temper was to be expected since not only was her baby now at least two weeks late and showing no signs of relinquishing its home within the Hibernian but Brigid was also dealing with an injured Edric. "He'll be gone a while, I believe," he offered, leaning against the post that supported the roof and indicated the entrance of the smithy.

Nadège shrugged and shifted on the stool at the workbench. "She'll make sure that he doesn't suffer too much." She traced her fingertips over the designs over the box. She wasn't sure what Dagonet intended to do with the box, but it surely had something to do with the recalcitrant babe in Brigid's womb. "How's Dagonet faring?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder to find the scout still standing in the doorway.

Tristan allowed himself a small smile. "He will be better once the baby is born. One would think it is he who will give birth."

Testing once again the hinge and satisfied that the small silver box was finished, Nadège set it on the workbench and stood. Hands resting on her lower back, she stared into the flames of the furnace. "It's the way with fathers. You're right, he will be better once the baby is born."  
Tristan cocked his head slightly, watching his fellow Amazone. "Do you know much of babies?"

A quick shake of her head was her answer. She continued to watch the flames, the heels of her hands digging into the muscles of her back. She let her eyes slide to where the scout stood, dark eyes watching her. "We've never fought, have we," she noted.

Tristan shook his head.

"Why not?" she asked, turning to face him fully.

Tristan allowed a small smile to play over his lips. Reaching into his jerkin, he pulled out an apple and took a bite. He watched as the woman mulled over her own question before moving back to her work. He did not speak as he watched her working. Finally, he slipped away as silently as he came, leaving his tribeswoman to her tasks and her questions.

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Gawain grinned up at the woman pinning to the mattress of his bed. Dark hair tumbled around his face, a thick curtain that left only his and Stasja's faces and blocked out anything else in his bedchamber. Looking up at the woman straddling him, he couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips.

Stasja raised an eyebrow at the man below her, her hands wrapped around his wrists. She knew that if he had wanted to, she would have been hurled off of him. This was not about force or strength or power. Dipping her head, she captured his lips with hers.

The groan that came from the man beneath had her curling her lips into a smile. The kiss, which started as chaste, quickly became much more. Still she held his wrists to the bed, teasing both of them with no touch beyond their mouths and the feel of their bodies stretched atop each other. The thought that this game had a much more intriguing prize kept her focused, even though the feel of his body beneath her was beginning to drive her to distraction.

Lifting her lips from his, she watched him with passion-drugged eyes. Smiling, she released his hands and let out a purr of pleasure as he flipped her onto her back and laid beside her. He let his hand wander from shoulder to hip, caressing the curves that had beguiled him for so many weeks through her thin shirt and breeches, though this time he found only skin. His other hand, draped beneath Stasja's head, pillowed her cheek and allowed her to face him as he touched her.

"Stasja," he breathed, leaning forward and kissing her forehead.

Amber eyes drifted open and Stasja offered a lazy smile. "Gawain."

Gawain pulled her to him, his hands finding purchase at her hip and shoulder. The kiss they shared was tentative but quickly deepened until neither could had any breath left. Breaking apart, blue eyes searched gold. He watched as one of her small hands traced the front of his tunic, coming to rest over his heart.

The look in her golden eyes took his breath away and he began the task of stripping his own clothing from his body to match her nakedness.

Moments later the their clothes were scattered about the room and Gawain had pinned the dark haired woman beneath him. "You are mine," he growled, fingers curling around her body and pulling her tighter to him.

Stasja groaned and pulled the head of the man on top of her down, claiming his lips.


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: This short chapter was inspired by Nickel back's "Next Contestant." Apologies for its brevity, but I couldn't resist. Yes, this is all focusing on Tristan. Don't worry, I haven't given up on the others. And more is coming of greater length. Just couldn't resist.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirteen: Games

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Tristan watched the way that Nadège swept between the tables of drunken men, his fingers moving to the daggers tucked in various spots on his body. It would be so easy, he thought as he watched yet another man reaching for her ass and giving it a squeeze. The drunkard earned himself a smack across the head with a tankard and a snarled curse from the Sarmatian woman. He moved back to the wall, waiting.

It would be so easy if she would just stay out of the tavern for a night. He wasn't sure if it was the fact that the leather breeches clung to every curve or the fact that the tunic she wore dipped dangerously low, giving a glimpse of full breasts if she shifted just so. It had been easier when she was in a dress, he decided viciously. As least when she was in a dress she drew less attention to her considerable assets. More importantly, he'd been able to ignore them.

Arthur was beginning to become angry with the amount of men that Tristan was teaching a lesson to. And the healers were grumbling about having to stitch up his pupils.

He stiffened as she batted her eyelashes at a drover and leaned in front of him, snatching his empty cups from the table. The grubby man gaped at the Sarmatian woman leaning so close to him, clearly enamored by the sudden shift in the attitude of Nadège. The hand that smacked her ass seemed to echo through the tavern.

Tristan might be able to justify murder.

Watching his tribeswoman sashay past him, he clenched his fists to keep from grabbing her as she passed.

What was she playing at, he asked himself.

Vanora chuckled as Nadège swept in to the kitchens, dropping the empty mugs into the sink and reaching for a fresh tray. "What game are you playing with Tristan?" the redhead asked over her shoulder, elbows resting on the bar.

Nadège narrowed her eyes in confusion. "No games, lady. You yourself said that I needed to show a softer side else I would drive your patrons away from your harpy." She glanced over her shoulder into the tavern proper and spotted the scout watching the table she had left. "He doesn't even notice me. Nor care whom I flirt with," she promised, lifting the filled tray off the table and came to stand level with the tavern owner.

Vanora shook her head and watched the Sarmatian woman returning to the tables requiring her attention. It was a matter of days before Brigid would be healed enough from the birth of her twins to be back in the kitchens and already the merchants were coming calling, asking if Vanora's cook would be needing their wares. That is, if Tristan didn't murder her patrons for touching his tribeswoman before her cook returned to duty.

For such a smart woman, Vanora decided that Nadège was supremely stupid when it came to Tristan.


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: This chapter is…well, it just is. Kind of had to get it out. And it's longer. Has some Fulcina, Alecto, and the knights in it. More is coming. I just hope that none of the actors ever get curious about what some little half-Irish writer decided to write about them. I don't think they would like it.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Fourteen: Interference

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Bors frowned, eyes moving between a seething Tristan and a mutinous Nadège. "They really have no idea," he muttered.

Vanora shook her head. It would have been funny except for the fact that it would soon be explosive in the tavern. Every time anyone touched her Tristan seemed to fight a battle against the urge to maim and kill. For Nadège's part, anytime Nyssa or Elspeth would deposit themselves on Tristan's lap in hopes of earning the scout's coin with their company, the eldest Sarmatian woman would pull a dagger and start to sharpen it. Needless to say, Elspeth and Nyssa soon decided to leave Tristan to his own devices.

Gawain and Galahad were discussing the merits of locking the Amazones in a cupboard for a day. And they would have seriously considered it save for the looks of horror and fear that crossed the faces of Stasja and Zaria. The idea was quickly scrapped. But that still left the problem.

It was decided that someone impartial would decide what to do with the contrary Amazone.

When Brigid walked into the tavern, having left her days old children with Fulcina for the day so that she could get the kitchens back in order, she found a tavern full of hopeful faces looking at her that did not include either Tristan or Nadège. Taking one look at the expectant faces, Brigid briefly considered turning around and going back to her rooms. "What is going on?" she demanded in a low tone as she stepped further into the tavern.

Bors chuckled and stepped to the wife of his best friend. Guiding her to a chair, he watched her settle herself then took a seat on a bench near her as well. "Brigid, whatcha think of Nadège and Tristan?"

Brigid cocked her head to once side. "Excuse me?" She pulled her hair over her shoulder and began to braid it as she pondered the question. "There is no Nadège and Tristan, Bors."

Bors slapped his thigh. "Exactly. But they're gonna kill someone if they don't become Nadège and Tristan."

Brigid leaned forward, pressing her hand to the bullish knight's forehead. "No fever," she muttered, leaning back. "Bors, those two are always on the verge of killing something. Since when do they need to be-" she trailed off as a blush rose in her cheeks. "They are grown people, Bors."

Bors grinned. "Grown people that lack the sense of any tribe but the Amazone. Look," he raised his hands in defense, "I have as much respect as the next for those bastards but they did have a cuckolded way of courtship."

The nods from the Sarmatians, both male and female, seemed to confirm this.

Brigid shook her head, rising. "You all need to stop. They would not appreciate you discussing this, and I for one like my head where it is. Leave them be. They'll figure it out."

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Nadège grimaced as she swatted at the hands that were groping her. _I cannot kill them_, she repeated to herself in her mind as she tried to squirm away from the visiting Roman who seemed to have decided that she would be his new plaything. It was nice to know that Romans hadn't changed. They were still arrogant, ungrateful bastards who thought any woman coming near them was a whore.

How she had let her guard down enough to be hauled onto the lap of this Roman was beyond her. What was clear was that she needed to get away from him. And his friends. Gods, she hated Romans.

"Ah, lass. You're feisty. Bet you're a tiger in bed," crooned the bulky Roman who held her on his lap.

Nadège turned her head away from his mouth and shuddered as she felt his lips moving against the column of her throat. "Tigress," she muttered as she tried to pull her wrists free and not retch all over herself.

"Huh?"

Nadège glared at the man who shifted beneath her, letting her know through her leather breeches that he was _very _happy to have her in his lap. "If you're going to compare me to an animal, at least choose the correct gender. Now let me up or you'll be missing the bits that make you a man."

The man in front of her, a very drunk rust-haired Roman, grinned. "Ah, my little spitfire. Come, give papa a kiss."

Moments later he pulled away from the Sarmatian woman, one hand pressed to his now bleeding mouth. "The bitch bit me!" he cried in shock.

One of the other Romans slapped her across the cheek, rocketing her head back against the man who held her. "You need to learn some manners."

Nadège spat blood out and turned her head to the man who had struck her. "I need learn nothing from you, ape. Now let me go," she once again ordered. Allowing her eyes to move towards the tavern proper, she began to understand why no one had interrupted the Romans' fun. They were in a darkened alcove away from the laughter and light of the tavern and away from the protective presence of the other Sarmatians. She'd be lucky if she got out of this with only a split lip.

"Come on, little whore, play with us," crooned one of the younger Romans.

Nadège ground her teeth together, biting off the string of curses that threatened to spill from her lips. "For the last time, boy, I am no whore. Besides, I only play with men, not animals."

The man holding her chuckled and stroked her through her leathers. "I think you need to learn to respect your betters."

"The day a pack of filthy Romans are better than me is the day they put me in the cold, dank ground."

The man with the bleeding lip let his eyes rake over her from toe to head. "That can be arranged, sweetling," he warned.

Nadège twisted away from the hand stroking her throat and gasped as fingers tightened around her throat. "You're not man enough," she replied haughtily.

The man with the bloody mouth grinned. "Shall I let you feel whether I am man enough? That pretty mouth should be doing other things than spitting out those angry words."

"Careful," warned Nadège in a low growl. "Or I'll bite it off."

Suddenly a dark shape stepped into the doorway, its shape familiar to Nadège. "Let her go," growled Tristan.

"No," replied the drunk Roman holding her to his lap.

Tristan stepped forward a step so that the men in the alcove could see him better. Raising an eyebrow, he considered the Roman response. "No? I'll tell you only one more time. Let her go."

Suddenly the bearlike form of Gawain joined Tristan's in the doorway, blue eyes taking in the tableau of Romans holding their kinswoman. "Tristan. Is there a problem?" he growled, his tone clear that he didn't have to ask the question.

Nadège didn't so much see the smirk as hear it in Tristan's voice. "No problem, Gawain. Again, gentlemen, let her go. She'll not be your entertainment tonight or any other night."

The Roman she had bitten grinned. "If it's a matter of coin we have plenty."

The man holding her pulled her tighter, crushing her to him. "And it's a matter of sharing, we don't mind sharing her."

Nadège wriggled harder, the heel of her palm pressed to his nose and tilting his head back. Let him share a broken nose, she thought viciously.

Tristan's answer was barely audible. "I don't share."

"Hold her! You're letting her loose!" cried the man with the bloody mouth, realizing that the man holding Nadège was loosening his hold on her thanks to the damage to his bleeding nose.

Suddenly Tristan's hand was wrapped around Nadège's forearm and was tearing her from the Roman's grip. She stumbled and spun, stopping only when she slammed into Bors's chest. The gruff knight looked down at her, took in that she was relatively unharmed, and shoved her behind him.

Nadège stumbled to a table, leaning against the wood as she touched her cheek and lips tentatively. Chancing a glance over her shoulder, she watched as the Romans were tossed out of the tavern and followed by obviously livid Sarmatians. As Zaria and Stasja settled their fellow Sarmatian woman on a bench with a cup of mead, Nadège watched Tristan stand in the doorway of the tavern and clean blood from his blade. Nodding to Nadège in understanding, he headed back to the table where the other Sarmatians were once again taking their seats.

_So much for a quiet evening at the tavern. _

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Arthur frowned as he watched a bruised Nadège standing before him. Alecto had asked after the fates of the mercenaries that the Church had provided for his trip to see his mother and the king had to come up with some kind of answer. Now the two Amazone stood in his chamber, Tristan leaning against the wall and Nadège standing ramrod straight in front of the king.

"I did not think, sire," she offered.

Tristan nodded. "No, she did not," he agreed. He shrugged at the glower sent his way by Nadège.

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. He might have to go to the tavern and have Brigid brew him some of her headache potion. At this rate he probably would not be able to see let alone rule. "Pray what did you not think about, Nadège?" he asked patiently.

Nadège shifted. "I forgot that Romans don't know how to behave around a woman. Present company excluded, sire," she added quickly. "You know how to treat a woman. I mean, um," she trailed off, realizing that she was beginning to babble.

Arthur nodded then lifted his head to meet Tristan's gaze. "You exacted swift justice, which is required. I have no complaint for your dealing with a pack of would-be-rapists." He dropped into the chair behind him and rubbed his temples. The headache was growing. "Now go, both of you."

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Fulcina held her son to her, eyes closed as she allowed the realization that her son was in her arms.

"Mama, it's good to see you as well," offered Alecto as he loosed his embrace and dropped back into his chair. He allowed his brown eyes to take in the changed woman that was his mother. Whereas she had always been a pale wraith in the household of his father, here she was a vivid woman with sparkle in her brown eyes. It amazed him that this woman was his mother. "You have changed."

Fulcina smiled. "It is good to have you here, darling. Will this be a long visit?" she asked hopefully.

Alecto shrugged. "I brought Bishop Germanus's man Horton with me. He will continue my instruction in the classics and in Greek. And the bishop sends his best wishes," he added.

Fulcina shuddered and shook her head. "I never liked that man. And to do what he did to Pelagius," she shook her head. "It is good that he has gone back to Rome," she decided.

Alecto frowned. "But he is coming here, mother. He'll be here within a month."


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: There was a request for more Alecto, Gueneviere, Lancelot and Fulcina. Two out of four ain't bad. Please, keep the reviews coming if you can. And as you can already tell I write sort of by request. Sorry it's so quick. Mad dash writing in one evening. For all of you souls in the midst of finals, my heart goes out to you. Maybe this will cheer you a bit. And review when you can. No rush. Really.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Fifteen: Wraiths

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Gueneviere looked down into the bright eyes of the infant cradled in her arms and smiled.

"You're a natural," offered Brigid as she stirred the soup she had been cooking since early morning. She smiled at the sight of the younger woman holding her son. "Soon you'll have your own. Best practice," she advised, waving the spoon at the Woad.

Gueneviere arched an eyebrow at her friend then let her brown eyes wander around the kitchens. "I don't know about that. I just can't believe he's so tiny."

Brigid chuckled. Pulling the hook holding the cauldron over the fire a bit off the flame, she turned her attention to the venison she was preparing. "He didn't feel so tiny with his sister in my belly." She patted her slowly diminishing belly and glanced at her son's twin who lay in her cradle fast asleep. "As for your own, don't underestimate your king. I'm sure he could lay down a royal decree or two and give you a passel of your own children," she teased as she set the venison to cook on the spit.

Gueneviere blushed and shook her head, rocking the baby in her arms. "Nonsense, Brigid. And you a priestess," she teased back.

Brigid turned to her third task, the kneading of dough to form the intricate rope breads that she preferred. "Aye, me a priestess." Soon a multitude of twisted loaves of bread slid into the oven to bake. "Have you seen Fulcina since her son came?"

Gueneviere laid the infant boy next to his sister and watched him slide his thumb between his lips as he snuggled up to his sister. "Yes. She seems upset by something but won't tell me what it is that troubles her." She moved away from the children and closer to the hearth and her friend. "Of course, it might have something to do with Germanus's return."

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"It is good to see you again, Alecto."

"As it is you, sire. Congratulations on your victory over the Saxons."

Arthur grinned at the young man, his hand resting on the boy's shoulder. "By the grace of God we were victorious." The older man allowed his green eyes to sweep the meeting hall, alighting on the other individuals present for the meeting. Across the hall stood Dagonet with Bors, deep in discussion. Near them stood Galahad and Gawain, their conversation obviously heated if the flush in Galahad's cheeks and his exaggerated hand motions were any indication. Then came Tristan, the scout keeping to the shadows and whittling away at an apple with that ever present dagger. And Lancelot, the lover of Alecto's mother, had a distinctly uncomfortable expression as if he were waiting for live snakes to be dumped from the heavens. "I think we should begin. You have much to tell us."

Alecto nodded and claimed a seat next to Lancelot, smiling slightly at the older man. Thought they hadn't had the conversation about Lancelot's relationship with Alecto's mother, he wondered that the former lothario seemed so uncomfortable. After all, Alecto reasoned, any man who could heal his mother after his father Marius's mistreatment was an improvement. However, thoughts such as those were out of place with the current conversation. In as confident a voice as he could muster, he announced "I bear greetings from Rome."

The knights around the table shifted but did not counter the greeting. It would do no good to antagonize this young man as they needed to know what he had to tell.

"Alecto, you are familiar with my knights," began Arthur in a reassuring voice. "Please, tell us what brings you back to our fair land."

Alecto's smile reappeared and not for the first time Lancelot marveled at the fact that Fulcina's son resembled her so much and his father not at all. "My mother, for one. I wished to make sure that she was happy. That, and Bishop Germanus wished me to prepare his welcome."

The knights around the table suddenly stilled, their expressions wary.

"Bishop Germanus?"

Alecto nodded. "Yes, the bishop knew that I intended to visit my mother and asked for me to convey his imminent arrival."

Dagonet frowned. "How imminent?"

Alecto pondered the question for a moment. "He should arrive within three weeks, Sir Dagonet."

Bors leaned over, his gruff voice soft enough so only his friend could hear him. "Whatcha thinking?"

Dagonet slid his blue eyes over to Bors. "That Christians burn women like Brigid."

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Arthur bent over the table, his fingers running over the maps that were scattered over the table. Somehow it reminded him of the night before Badon Hill when he was trying to formulate a battle plan. Instead he now was attempting to avoid considering the ramifications of the visit of a bishop of Rome, a man who had sent his mentor and surrogate father to certain death as a heretic, a man who seemed to surpass the new king in viciousness and subterfuge.

Rubbing his forehead, he cast bleary eyes at the sleeping figure in his bed. How many nights had he spent worrying? If he'd known that the thin circlet of gold that he word on his head would mean never getting another peaceful night of sleep, he would have declined Merlin's proclamation of king. But, then, if he was not king he would not have the beautiful woman that loved him.

The figure in his bed shifted and sat up and Arthur smiled as he watched a fall of dark hair tumble over the bare shoulders of his wife. "Come to bed, Arthur," came the soft voice of Gueneviere, one pale hand stretched out towards her husband.

Like the mermaids that lured passing sailors from their ships with their songs in the Odyssey, Arthur was pulled towards this dark-haired nymph that was his wife. Settling on the edge of the bed, he reached out with calloused fingertips to trace her cheek. So many nights he feared her to be a wraith that would evaporate with the mists in the morning.

"I'm real," came the soft voice of Gueneviere, her eyes searching his. She reached out with her own hand, covering his fingers with her own. "Now come to bed, my love. We'll save the world together in the morning."


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Forgive me but the song that Stasja sings is actually a song by Secret Garden called "Dreamcatcher." Due to a week of unpaid vacation that I have scheduled for this week, this hopefully will be the first of several chapters that will get posted this week. Please, keep the reviews coming. Do you have any idea how much they help me to keep this story focused? And, yes, please let me know if there's something that I'm ignoring and need to focus on more or if there's something that you would like to see happen.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Sixteen: Song

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Nadège watched for a moment as Stasja and Zaria whacked each other with heavy staffs before turning back to the bow in her hand and the arrow that she was about to let fly. It had been a week and the bruises from her brush with drunken Romans were faded to a sickly green color from their previous deep maroon. Drawing the bow string taught, she took a breath, held it, and let the arrow go. She watched the arrow head sink into the center of the target and let out her breath. She drew another arrow from the quiver and repeated the same process.

Archery practice was mindless since it depended mostly on muscle memory. And that was the problem with archery-it allowed her mind to wander. And wander it did. Memories and thoughts drifted through her mind as she let arrow after arrow fly, her fingers humming against the taut bowstring. For a week she had been treated like a fragile glass bowl by her sister Sarmatians. Perhaps it was reasonable that Zaria and Stasja wouldn't know how to deal with Nadège being in need of a rescue. For the two year they had never seen Nadège as anything other than the fierce warrior they knew. To see anything else was like Gawain in a dress-off-putting to one's sense of reality.

Quiver spent, Nadège started towards the target, blue eyes narrowed to the simple target that the knights used to practice their bow skills. Reaching out for the arrow, she was slightly surprised to find her fingers shaking. Nadège bit her lip and closed her eyes as she clenched her fist. Long moments passed before the eldest Sarmatian once again reached for the arrows with steady fingers and plucked them from the target.

Across the field, sharp dark eyes followed her before turning back to his opponent.

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Gawain tugged on a dark lock, causing Stasja to turn. He sucked in a breath at the look in her eyes as the dark-haired woman slipped into his arms. Together they tumbled back onto the bed, clothes coming off in quick succession until only skin pressed again skin. Kisses were traded and in the afternoon light soft words spoken.

Like a fierce summer storm building, they moved savagely and with great force. The murmurs and moans were echoed and redoubled as they moved together towards completion. Long minutes passed before there was a shared shout as their pleasure reached a crescendo and the pair collapsed on top of each other, utterly spent. Golden skin damp with sweat moved against damp skin, twining with dark hair, and soon the pair of Sarmatian's lay curled facing each other.

Gawain wrapped a dark curl around his finger, watching as the dark hair showed silver, blue, and black strands in the sunlight. It seemed like only days before that they had tumbled into his rooms, their laughter turning into something else as they shared their observations of their comrades. Lifting his eyes, he was not surprised to find his lover watching him with those strange amber eyes. "Sing for me," he whispered.

Stasja smiled. For this golden warrior it was the song that resonated in his heart. Each time they coupled he requested a song and she always obliged. Closing her eyes, she waited as Gawain laid his cheek against her breast and as his breathing steadied.

The words she sang were soft, barely loud enough to be heard by the bearlike man holding her. The song was more of a plea than a lullaby and Gawain silently recalled the pledges and prayers that his mother would sing to the night.

_Hear my silent prayer  
Heed my quiet call  
When the dark and blue surround you  
Step into my sigh  
Look inside the light  
You will know that I have found you_

She hummed the same repeating tune as she stroked his hair, her eyes closed. Then, even softer this time, she again sang the verse and soon drifted into sleep.

Still draped across her Gawain watched as her body relaxed in sleep, cradled in his arms. Not for the first time the tawny-maned knight wondered at the trust she had for him. His fingertips traced the scars that littered her body. He remembered that she had not been embarrassed by her scars, instead treating them as a matter of course. The difference between this and the whores he had once frequented who sought to hide each and every blemish as if it were a stain on their soul was striking.

This woman who shared her bed with him was as much a warrior as he and had likely had as little choice in her skill with a blade.

Finally allowing his eyes to drift shut, Gawain pulled Stasja tighter. As long as she was in his arms, the world was right. He smiled as the thoughts emptied from his tired brain to be replaced by sleep.

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Tristan finished his cut through the flesh of the apple and lifted out the section of sweet fruit. Holding it between his fingers, he slid the fruit between his lips and began to chew. Brown eyes followed the movement of Nadège as she dawdled at the rear entrance of the tavern, dark hair hanging down her back and turning the back of her shirt near transparent. He'd followed her from the smithy to her quarters, then waited in the shadows as she cleaned up from a day of slamming metal into submission with heat, hammer and anvil. Then he had followed her from her quarters to the tavern, always keeping out of sight and far enough away that she would not spot him.

After the Romans, he took on the responsibility of safeguarding the woman as his personal charge. And as he followed her, he saw from the line of Nadège's back and the turn of her head that she knew she was being followed each time that he followed. But since Tristan did not attack nor close the distance between them, Nadège treated her shadow as just that.

He slid the blade into the flesh of the apple again, sliding the razor-sharp blade through the flesh until he had once again inscribed an arc through the apple and freed a slice from the fruit. Pulling the slice free, he slipped it between his lips and once again began to chew the fruit. He watched as she wrapped an apron around her waist and began to bus the tables that already held patrons.

He heard and felt rather than saw the other knights arrive from the alcove where he stood. Stepping a hair's breath to one side, he was able to see his friends claiming a table and immediately calling for ale. With some reservations he stepped from the shadows and neared the table.

Dagonet saw the quiet scout first, blue eyes unreadable as he glanced between Tristan and Nadège. Soon the others realized that Tristan had not only come to their table but was taking the near unprecedented action of claiming a seat beside Lancelot. All conversation halted as Tristan leaned back in his chair and fixed an appraising eye on Roman-Briton commander and Sarmatian knight alike.

Clearing his throat, Dagonet broke the silence. "So, Arthur, what is the plan for the morrow?"

Arthur looked tired and had already accumulated a number of silver hairs that were lacking prior to Badon Hill. "We assemble at dawn for patrol. I've received reports through Merlin that there's possibly some trouble to the east near the coast."

The men nodded. It had been quiet for too many weeks like a storm brewing. Ever since they had found the funeral pyre of Saxon victims and discovered their kinswomen in their fortress, there had been very little activity by the remaining Saxon raiders who had blended into the woodlands of Britain. Perhaps that was due to their thorough scouring of the countryside for raiders and their ruthless purging of said raiders. Or perhaps it was because the raiders were gathering strength to fight a common enemy-the forces of Castellus.

The table was silent for long moments as the men considered the reasons for the apparent peace of the land.

To be honest, none of the options were good.


	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: A request was made to give an update on Three and Lucan. For the record, in rewatching the movie for approximately the thirtieth time, it finally hit me that according to canon, Three was a boy. Well, gentle readers, in my reality not only do Dagonet, Tristan, and Lancelot not die at Badon Hill or on the ice but Three is a girl. It's already AU, so obviously we're not canon on yet another point. Thank you for not beating me around the head for that error. Also, requests were made for more on Dagonet, more on Galahad and a few others. Hence, the focus of this chapter. Enjoy. Oh, and please, for the love of any deity you wish, keep the reviews coming. As always, responses to your wonderful reviews is at the end. And, again, thank you. BTW, for anyone who has finished their finals, I hope that this gives you something to focus on other than schoolwork.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Seventeen: Drama

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Vanora let her brown eyes wander to where Three was helping One and Five to scrub the laundry. The day's chores included laundry, mending and a variety of other things that always seemed to accumulate in never-ending cycles thanks due to eleven children being part of the accumulation process. It was only three days since her husband and his comrades had ridden out the gates of Castellus to do their jobs and already the chaos of a one-parent household was driving her to distraction.

Already the family was in an uproar. According to Three, Vanora was the meanest, most spiteful mother ever alive since the gods created the world. All because Three's mother was determined that Three would not be taken like a common harlot by Lucan in the hayloft of the barn. And had dragged Three from the hayloft to keep exactly that from happening.

Thank the gods that One had inherited the temper of both her mother and father. It made her a force to be reckoned with and she had gone after Lucan like a fox sneaking into a henhouse. Which left Vanora to drag her daughter off for a little chat about appropriate behavior.

Brigid's response to Lucan's behavior had been a cuff to the back of the head of the boy and a stern order for Lucan to help Ganis with mucking out the stables since Jols was on patrol with the knights. She had made it plain that his dalliance with Three was over.

For Three, that declaration had meant two days of crying. This was the first time in the three days since the knights departed that Three had decided to participate in family chores. Of course, it might have something to do with Vanora's threat not to let her third child visit the fair that would take place in a month's time.

So far, Lucan was unaccounted for.

At least around Bors's children.

Which was just fine with the protective mother of eleven.

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"You like her," stated Dagonet as he poked the flames of their campfire back to life, looking at neither of his companions. Only Tristan and Galahad were awake at this hour. The other were still asleep, as all but Dagonet should have been since it was the Sarmatian healer's turn at watch.

Galahad looked up from the symbols he was carelessly inscribing in the dirt, sighed in disgust, and tossed the stick he had been drawing with into the flames. "Who?"

Tristan watched the exchange from the other side of the fire, but still close enough to hear. He leaned back against the tree at his back, settling himself a little more comfortably.

Dagonet ignored the question, instead leaning back from the fire he had coaxed into an inferno, and met Galahad's brown gaze. "Does Lancelot know that you intend to court his sister?" came the soft question from the healer.

Galahad gaped at the older man. How in the name of the gods had Dagonet even known about this?

Dagonet smiled gently. "I think you should tell him. He should hear it from you."

Galahad nodded mutely and moved back to his bedroll. Moments later the youngest knight was snoring softly.

Tristan watched as Dagonet set about preparing the breakfasts they would eat in a few hours and for which the tallest of them would be responsible. "Any advice for me?" came the soft menacing question.

Dagonet did not look up from his task but a smile quirked at his lips. "Don't wait too long, brother.

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"Twins, Dag. I didn't know ya' had it in ya," teased Bors as he rode beside his usually silent friend. He watched the horizon as they fell into silence once again. They would be back at the fortress before the next day's end, barring any unforeseen calamities.

"I didn't know I could be so scared," admitted the giant beside Bors.

Bors glanced to the side and took in the thoughtful expression on Dagonet's face. "Same with me when Van had every one of our eleven. But then I see the little face and make sure all the bits are there and hug Van and all is right again." He looked down at the mane of his horse, fingers stroking the neck muscles of his horse as they rode. "Same as it is with you and Brigid. She's good for ya'," came the gruff admission.

Dagonet offered that small smile again that had been on his face every time he spoke of his new children. "They're the first thing I've had to come home to me that's mine. Part of me. When they burned-" he began, eyes far off.

Bors shook his head and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "I think the girl looks like your Brigid. She has her eyes," he added.

Dagonet chuckled. "And the boy, according to Brigid, is the spitting image of me. Says that he has my eyes."

Bors nodded sagely. "Aye, that he does. Wonder if he'll be as tall as you. So, decided on names yet?"

Dagonet shrugged. "May just go your route and go through the alphabet instead of numbering them. But I've never in my life felt so much strength in one so small. Those tiny fingers clenched mine in an unbreakable grip. My little girl will be a force to be reckoned with," he offered, more than a little pride in his voice.

The two fell back into their companionable silence, eyes watching the other members of their troupe.

Lancelot was riding behind Arthur, the king's friend unusually silent. He had not promised to try to bed Stasja to raise Gawain's ire, nor advised Bors that any of Bors's former bastards were the product of the dark knight's loins. And he had definitely not implied to their largest knight that Brigid's twins were the product of a night spent in the passionate embrace of the former lothario. All in all, it was an odd manner for Arthur's friend and the newly minted king was determined to discover the cause.

Arthur reined in his mount just enough to bring him alongside Lancelot. "What is the matter?" he asked quietly.

Lancelot had been unusually quiet for the entire patrol, speaking only when spoken to and otherwise sinking into the morass of his thoughts. The others might have thought him just thoughtful had it not been for the sleepless thrashing of the knight every evening they made camp.

"Nothing is the matter," came the defensive tone.

Arthur raised an eyebrow and waited, green eyes fixed on his friend in a penetrating stare. He didn't have long to wait.

"Stop looking at me like that. I told you, Arthur. There is nothing wrong."

Arthur swallowed a chuckle. It was new to be the one teasing and the king found it refreshing. "I'm sure that Fulcina will be happy to see you."

A grunt was the only answer and Arthur watched Lancelot hunker down a little lower in the saddle. Arthur leaned back in the saddle and considered his options. He could tease his friend and see if his friend's temper would rise to the occasion. He could let the topic go and simply ignore the fact that something was amiss with Lancelot. Or he could…he paused as he realized that he hadn't formulated a third option.

He hadn't realized how much work there was in annoying his friend.

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Gueneviere spun away from Nadège, her laughter trilling in the early morning air as she narrowly avoided a slice by the older woman's sword. This had become a habit and a pleasurable one at that. For the young queen, it was a relief to not be the queen of the castle and instead just be a Woad warrior fighting a Sarmatian warrior. The fact that her husband, dear to her though he was, wasn't about to scold her for not pulling her punches, or slashes as it were, was an added bonus.

The Woad grinned at the memory of the eldest of the Sarmatian women shyly asking if the queen would be her sparring partner. That had been the morning after the knights rode out of the fortress for their most recent patrol and every dawn since had found the two women trading blows on the practice field. A stinging slap to her flanks with the flat of the practice sword reminded Gueneviere to pay attention to her opponent.

Nadège grinned at the queen, her posture one of relaxed elegance. Not for the first time Gueneviere was reminded of Tristan by the Amazone woman. Gueneviere's grin returned as she started an attack that left the Amazone backpedaling. Of course, it didn't help that she had decided to talk about a particularly sore spot with her sparring partner.

"So, Nadège, what do you think of Tristan?"  
Nadège stumbled backwards, narrowly blocking Gueneviere's strike. Blue eyes narrowing, she started a counterattack. "Why would I think anything of Tristan?" she asked quietly as she advanced. Spinning, she slammed her elbow into the queen's stomach, driving Gueneviere back as well.

Gueneviere dropped back, the smile still on her lips even as she rubbed at the now-sore spot on her belly. She knew that she'd touched a nerve since the only times that Nadège ever lost her temper or focus were when she was challenged on something she cared about. So, the eldest Sarmatian cared for the scout? "Because he's a handsome man beneath all that fringe?"

Nadège cringed and renewed her attack. "I hadn't noticed."

Gueneviere used the Sarmatian woman's forward momentum against her, swinging around the side of Nadège and swatting her flanks with her own sword. "Of course you had, Nadège. I've seen you watch him." She really hadn't, but she thought it was a safe bet.

From the loss of color in the Sarmatian's face, she knew that it had been a very safe bet. So, Nadège _**did**_ watch Tristan. Interesting. Very interesting.


	18. Chapter 18

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Yes, I know that there was no pope at this time. But the movie said there was so we'll just leave it as canon as far as the movie is concerned. Sorry for the brevity. This chapter just begged to be written since it deals with Lancelot and Fulcina.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Eighteen: Courtship

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Fulcina tugged the comb through her dark tresses one last time then lifted her brown eyes to meet the watery reflection in the polished silver mirror. In less than a year she had gone from the meek, retiring wife of an abusive Roman to the mistress and companion of a passionate, sharp-tongued Sarmatian to the abandoned woman that now sat before the mirror.

She wasn't sure what she had done wrong but she had done something to drive Lancelot from her bed. Ever since Alecto had arrived at Castellus, Lancelot had been formal and awkward, refusing to be alone with his former lover as if he would burst into flames if he touched her. Fulcina was no longer sure if it was due to the arrival of her son or if the man who seemed to have stolen a piece of her soul had simply tired of his mistress. Was it her looks? she wondered. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, eying critically the faint lines that ran across her skin. Tugging on her cheeks, she inspected the lines at her lips. She was near thirty and the mother of a boy of sixteen summers. Perhaps she should just accept that it had been a passing fancy of the knight and that he had tired of his Roman lover.

Rising from the bench before the mirror, she turned towards the door to descend to the hall where dinner would be held formally. After all, her son was the honored guest and it would be bad form for his mother to be absent. Especially when she was in charge of the festivities. A gasp escaped her lips at the sight of the dark-haired knight leaning against her doorframe.

"I've missed you," came the soft admission from Lancelot.

Gone was the lothario who pursued and often won every maid in his path prior to rescuing she and her son from the Saxons, she realized. In its place was a young man who showed signs of worry and fear. God, he looked so young. Crossing to the door, she reached up to touch his cheek, his stubble scraping against her palm.

Lancelot leaned into her touch, his dark eyes shutting as he accepted her touch. His hand closed around her wrist, holding her hand in place against his cheek. Slowly he opened his eyes and met Fulcina's gaze. "I have been given permission to court you from your son," he announced if a whisper.

Fulcina's brown eyes widened and she gasped. When she had found Lancelot in her doorway, that certainly was the last thing she had expected the dark knight to whisper to her. "I do not need to be courted, my knight," she reminded. "I came to you. Willingly and with no illusions."

A corner of Lancelot's mouth quirked up as he looked down at the woman before him. He had forgotten how he towered over her. "Then perhaps I need to be courted, my love."

Fulcina gaped at him. For that she had no response.

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Alecto frowned, brown eyes wandering over the assembled guests in the hall. He had already had a quiet word with the dark knight, Lancelot shifting uncomfortably as the younger man gave his blessing. The Roman was certain that Lancelot had never expected to be embraced by his wife's lover and told to make her happy.

Now, though, Alecto had other concerns on his mind. Standing to his right was a changed Horton. Perhaps it had been the knowledge that Germanus had been willing to send the secretary to certain death. Or maybe it was seeing the victims of Marius Honorius, a man respected and valued by the Pope if only for the boy standing beside him. Whatever the reason, Horton now stood beside Alecto a stronger, more resolute man without the illusions about his faith nor his master Germanus.

In just over two weeks the bishop would be returning to Castellus, this time as the emissary of the Pope with control over his Roman subjects. And it was to this that the young Roman turned his mind.

"You are concerned," stated Horton.

Alecto nodded and sipped the mulled wine that he had been nursing for at least an hour. It was his task to be ambassador and emissary even if it was not in an official capacity and he could not do this with a mind muddled with alcohol. "Yes, Horton. Have you any idea why Germanus truly is visiting this land?" he asked, sweeping a hand towards the hall before him.

Horton shook his head and sipped his cup of wine. "No, my lord. He is a man ruled by duty and honor, though it may not always seem so," he added.

Alecto nodded. Though he shared Pelagius's views about free will thanks to his mother, he had kept his views hidden from both the Pope and Germanus. "It must be especially hidden," he observed, hiding his smirk in the wine he sipped.

Horton nodded, swallowing his own smile. "Deeply, my lord. He has no control here, my lord. The bishop can do no harm to this kingdom."

Alecto sighed. "He would not come unless he has some influence. Whether it be with Arthur or another in this kingdom, he has a resource to use." He rolled his neck, reveling in the popping of his vertebrae that released a tension he had felt all day. "And that is what worries me."


	19. Chapter 19

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Again, a request was made for more Fulcina/Lancelot and also for more Galahad. I couldn't resist throwing in some Tristan, Arthur and Gueneviere for good measure. As always, responses to you wonderful reviewers is at the end. And, please, keep the reviews coming. They let me know what you like and what bits you're most interested in. And, yes, I write by request-within reason that is.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Nineteen: Brothers

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"Gods, Galahad, if you pace any more I won't have a rug," grumbled Gawain, his chin on his fists as he watched the young man that was more brother to him than comrade. "If you're so worried, ask him in front of Arthur. Lancelot can't very well kill you in front of the king," advised the blonde-haired knight, failing to hide his grin.

Galahad shot a withering look at his friend. "And if he says no?"

Gawain shrugged. "Then he says no. And you work that much harder to prove to Lancelot that your intentions towards Zaria are pure."

"Pure," mumbled Galahad, eyes boring into the floor. "As if Lancelot would believe that."

Gawain sighed. Even though Bors and Lancelot, and even he and Tristan, teased Galahad about his luckless nature with women, the youngest knight was no untried virgin. In fact, Galahad was able to lure many of the merchants' daughters to his bed despite his brothers' heckling. He even managed to seem to bed women by accident, if that was possible. "Galahad, do you care for Zaria?"

Galahad nodded earnestly, finally lifting brown eyes from their perusal of Gawain's floorboards. "Of course."

Gawain smiled gently. "And would you do anything for her?"

Galahad again nodded.

"Then ask him for permission to court Zaria."

Galahad raked a hand back through his curls. "Why does she need his permission? Your Stasja didn't need anyone's permission to become yours."

Gawain shrugged. "Only Zaria has anyone of kith and kin. By our ways, blood kin can deny a courtship. And Stasja has already been a bride once, Galahad. She doesn't require permission of anyone save her own heart." He held his fist over his own heart as illustration.

Galahad sighed again. "Promise me that if he kills me you'll cast my ashes to a strong East wind."

Gawain stood from his bed and crossed to his friend, a smile tugging at his lips. "Brother, I promise it'll be the strongest wind in creation."

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Fulcina stepped back from the table that she had spent most of the evening working at getting perfect. So, her lover wished to be courted? She smiled at the image of her on bended knee before Lancelot spouting Ovid. She knew why he had really said that he wished to be courted. They had the permission of her nearest male relative to pursue whatever it was that they shared and she was adamant that she would not be courted nor married. This was a way around it. That, however, did not mean that they couldn't enjoy it.

Fulcina could be the pursuer and Lancelot the pursued.

A soft rap at the door of her apartments announced Lancelot's arrival. She turned and strode to the door, smiling at the amused look on Lancelot's face. Taking his hand, she pulled him deeper into her rooms, taking care to latch the door before drawing him to the table. She had learned in the first months in this fortress that the Roman way of eating on cushions was considered too…decadent, to put a word to it. Hence she had taken to sitting in a chair at a table. She had to admit, there was much to merit this way of eating. Taking the seat facing Lancelot, she met his gaze over the dishes that she and Brigid had fussed over for the evening meal and relaxed.

Lancelot assessed the meal that had been laid out for him and took a sip of the wine that had already been poured into his goblet. He smiled at the flavors that she had accumulated for the "courtship" of her lover. Rich Roman wine flooded his palate, its flavor slightly woody. To his right were olives, bread and oil with spices mixed into it, then an array of vegetables and meats that set his stomach to rumbling. He knew that his lover could cook but this bounty was unexpected. "I see that you have been busy," he commented dryly.

Fulcina blushed and nodded, eyes dropping to inspect her plate. "Yes, my love. I wanted our first engagement to be memorable."

Lancelot chuckled and popped an olive between his lips, savoring the uniquely strong flavor around the pit. Swallowing, he grinned. "I think that there is no way that this could not be memorable, my dear. So, once we have devoured this delectable repast, what is the next item for the evening."

Fulcina shifted nervously. "I thought…"

Lancelot leaned back in his chair and felt his grin widen. Oh, but his lover did have the look of a maid dozens of years younger when she was unsure. It was as delectable as the meal to see Fulcina on unsure footing. "Yes?" he drawled.

Fulcina's head shot up and her eyes narrowed. "I thought we could take a walk in the gardens. And you're teasing me."

A chuckle escaped Lancelot's lips and he held his hands up in defense. "I could not resist. But I do not like the idea of strolling through the gardens," he announced.

Fulcina frowned. Him not liking her activities had not crossed her mind. "Then how would you prefer to end this lovely evening?' she asked softly.

A wolfish grin was Lancelot's only answer before he once again returned to the meal with gusto.

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"She needs a man."

Zaria looked up at Stasja, who was currently watching Nadège going through a complex set of drills designed to improve her coordination. The eldest of the Sarmatians had just completed her morning sparring practice with the queen and had been left to her own devices upon the queen's departure. "Not that I disagree, Stasja, but why do you think that Nadège requires a man?"

Stasja arched an eyebrow at her seated companion. "I know that you are an innocent, but no one is that innocent. She's snapping at anything that moves and I swear that I've heard her moaning in her sleep."

Zaria clapped her hands over her ears and shot a disgusted look at her friend. "Too much information, Stasja. I don't need to know that she moans. I don't want to know that she moans."

Stasja grinned and leaned a little closer to her friend. "Would you like to know the name that she moans?"

Zaria waited. "Alright, Stasja, whose name does she moan?" she asked sarcastically.

Stasja giggled. "Tristan's."

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Gueneviere looked up from her stack of scrolls to fix bleary brown eyes on her husband's green. "And we're concerned why?" she asked, weariness edging her words.

Arthur leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "The Saxons were defeated, yes, but even you are aware that we didn't kill all of them. Some escaped to the woods."

Gueneviere rolled her neck, grimacing as she heard several pops. "And we Woads killed those we found."

Arthur leaned forward again, one strong finger tapping a hand drawn map on the table. "Yes, my love, but the Woads did not catch all of them. So where did they go?" he repeated the question that had dogged the couple since they settled down to deal with the debris of ruling a kingdom.

Gueneviere shrugged. "I do not know, Arthur. And part of me does not care. We have peace. Is that enough?" she asked, rising from her chair and circling the table to stand at her husband's shoulder.

Arthur shook his head and opened another scroll. "Not if we do not know the reason for the peace or what it means."

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Gueneviere frowned as she disarmed at the end of her sparring practice. "Nadège, I have a boon to ask."

Nadège nodded and bowed slightly. "Of course, my queen," she replied, slipping from the casual camaraderie to the formality of a subject speaking with her queen. "What would you have of me?" she asked.

Gueneviere sighed and rubbed at the dull ache residing between her eyes on the bridge of her nose. She would rather take this particular assignment, if she was honest, but she could not be missed and could not go herself. Therefore she had to trust someone who was trustworthy and yet not Woad. "I need you to ride from Castellus and go to a village a day's ride from here. You must go into a tavern and meet a man with information. Can you do this?"  
Nadège paused for a moment then nodded. "I am to tell no one that I am going or where I am going, correct?" she confirmed.

Gueneviere nodded.

Nadège again bowed, then took the queen's hand and kissed the ring that symbolized Gueneviere's marriage to Arthur and the binding of the peoples of Briton. "I shall return with the information you seek," she promised.

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Tristan slipped to the side of Wasgergi, brown eyes alert as he watched the cloaked figure start towards the mare Dzerassa. He tensed as he watched familiar pale fingers began the task of readying the mare for a trip. Practiced brown eyes noted the bedroll and provisions being strapped to the saddle.

She was running?

The scout swallowed an anger that seemed to bubble out of nowhere and continued his silent appraisal of the blacksmith's apprentice. She seemed oblivious of his presence, as she usually seemed to be, and was completing her preparations.

"Come on, Dzerassa," crooned the soft voice of Nadège as she guided her mare from its stall. The mare whickered in protest, tossing its well-shaped head. A small hand came to rest on the horse's nose and Tristan watched Nadège look the mare in the eye. "We'll be back soon enough, I promise. Now, come. The sooner we go, the sooner we come back to your precious oats."

Tristan waited until the horse and rider had left the stables before turning back to his stallion. The dappled grey rolled his dark eyes at his rider, as if asking why they were waiting. The scout smothered a smile and quickly opened the stall and led his horse from its enclosure. With practiced grace Tristan clambered aboard the grey and guided it from the stable into the pre-dawn greyness. Out of earshot and certainly out of range of all but the scout's vision was Nadège, riding her mare with a swinging gait. Suddenly he was grateful for freedom he had in his movements, especially in scouting. It would not be amiss for him to be absent from Castellus for several days, if that.

"Come, Wasgergi, let's see what our little Sarmatian is up to."


	20. Chapter 20

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Okay, this is Tristan-centric for the following chapter. I apologize for being evil but I'll be good next chapter. Don't worry, next chapter will have the other knights in it. And, please, keep the reviews coming. I really am not kidding when I say that the impetus for a lot of this story comes from you guys. So, please, tell me what you like, don't like, and what you would like to see more of.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty: Inn

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Tristan patted the strong neck of his stallion, dark eyes sweeping the courtyard of the inn that both he and his quarry had arrived at. Almost a full day's ride from the fortress, this tiny village had nothing to boast of save this inn and its adjoined tavern. He'd arranged for a stall far from the coal-black Dzerassa, certain that Nadège would recognize his speckled gray. "Well, Wasgergi, we'll find out soon what brings your lover's mistress here." He held an apple in the palm of his hand and smiled a soft smile as his stallion chomped happily on the fruit. Once the apple was gone, he once again patted the gray's neck and left the horse to its own devices.

Tugging the cloak tighter around him, he was glad for the deep cowl that hid his face. It was a short walk from the stables to the tavern attached to the inn and he entered the tavern, dark eyes sweeping the interior for his quarry. She was seated before the fire, her breasts bound flat and her hair hidden by the hood of her own cloak. Anyone not knowing she was a girl would assume that she was just a pretty boy.

She was facing away from him and he took advantage of this to creep to a corner and claim an unoccupied chair. Soon he was settled with an ale and prepared for a long wait.

Through long hours and many candle marks he kept his vigil, dark eyes never straying from the woman who sat alone. He noted that she nursed a cup of mead through the evening but kept giving the wench coin to bring food. It was apparent that she was waiting for someone or something.

Finally, the tavern was shut down and he followed at a distance as Nadège trudged up the stairs to a room she had rented at great expense. After all, a room containing only one person was an anomaly-most rooms slept at least three to five in a bed, depending on the size of the bedmates. He shadowed her as she stopped before a room and pulled a heavy iron key from the pocket tied to her hip. The door opened on a somewhat comfortable room, a cheery fire blazing in the hearth and a pair of chairs positioned between the fire and the bed.

Nadège stepped through the door and started to close the door, eyes widening as Tristan slipped through the closing door. "Tristan! What are you doing here?" she cried, trying to keep her voice to a whisper. She pressed the door closed, careful to throw the bolt home to lock the door.

"What are you doing, Nadège?" came the quiet question from the scout.

Nadège frowned. "I do not have to tell you anything, scout. I'm here for reasons of my own."

Tristan nodded slowly. He did not think that this woman before him was in league with Saxons or bandits, but some reason had to have drawn her from the safety of Castellus. "Ah."

Nadège bristled and started towards the bed. Sitting down on the mattress, she began to pull off her boots. "You'll need to get your own room," she advised brusquely.

Tristan smirked. "That would not be advisable. I will stay here. With you. Until you are ready to return to Castellus," he advised with a nod of his head.

Nadège hurled her boots into a corner and dropped down in stockinged feet to the floor, then padded across the wood floor to the scout. "I do not think so, scout," she replied.

Tristan cocked his head to one side, unconsciously mimicking his hawk. "You are here for a reason. If you do not wish for all to know of your presence, you would be wise to allow me to stay." He pointed to one of the chairs. "I will sleep there." He crossed to the chair he had claimed and settled in it, his lanky body curling into the chair.

Nadège's frown deepened. "Fine. But you stay in that chair," she ordered, stepping to the candles that littered the room in turn, extinguishing each with a gentle blow. All the light save the blaze in the fireplace extinguished, she crossed back to the bed and began to disrobe. Her stockings and pants dropped to the ground. Reaching beneath her tunic, she quickly undid the binding that flattened her breasts and dropped that to the ground as well. Still clad in her tunic, she shot a look at Tristan in his chair and climbed beneath the covers on the bed.

Tristan watched with unreadable eyes as Nadège settled into the covers, her breath evening in the dark.

You could learn a lot about a person by how they slept. Tristan settled a little more comfortably in the uncomfortable chair. He'd been in less comfortable places. In fifteen years he had learned a great deal about his brother knights from their sleeping habits and he wondered what he would learn of his tribeswoman.

She lay curled on the edge of the mattress, the covers pulled up past her shoulders to cover her ears. She snuffled softly in her sleep and the covers rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The sounds of her breathing and the crackle of the flames in the hearth lulled the scout.

A low moan from the bed roused him and Tristan sat up straight in the chair, brown eyes searching the room for the source of the sound. There, it came again. He stood, following the sound. And the sound led him to the bed.

There was Nadège, hair fanned out on the pillow and eyes shut tight. She was moaning. His name.

Tristan smirked and crossed back to the chair, dropping back onto the hard wood.

Interesting, he decided before sleep finally claimed him, what you could learn about someone by how they slept.

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Nadège struggled awake and sat up. Sunlight was starting to peter into the room through the shuttered windows and the fire in the hearth had died to coals. Her eyes widened as she remembered that she had shared the room with a fellow Amazone. A quick glance told her that wherever Tristan was, he certainly wasn't in this room.

Pulling back on the trousers she had worn the day before, she quickly belted them in place then pulled back on her boots. _Once I'm back at the fortress, I'll take a long bath,_ she promised herself silently. Finally it was time to wrap the thick band of wool around her breasts and flatten them to her ribcage. Grimacing at the scratchiness of the wool, she pulled her jerkin over her head then pulled on the cloak. _Better to be uncomfortable and be thought of as a boy than be comfortable and the plaything of any man present._

With any luck the spy she was to meet would finally show up today. And then she could leave behind the inn and the scout. She hadn't expected him to take his shadowing of her to the extent that he commandeered a chair in her rented room. And his presence had done nothing for her dreams. He'd occupied every corner of her mind and she blushed at the things that they'd done to each other in her dreams.

_I need a man,_ decided the Sarmatian woman as she fastened the cloak around her throat and pulled the hood over her head. _Preferably someone weak that I wouldn't care about leaving,_ she added silently. That effectively eliminated the scout.

The hallway was quiet and the tavern had few patrons when she entered. Once again claiming her seat at the table she had occupied the night before, she waved over a young girl who was serving. Moments later she had a mug of ale and was nibbling on a loaf of bread. She cast a glance around the tavern room and spotted the scout. Like her he was drowning in a cloak that hid everything. And like her he was waiting.

A rustling in front of her drew her from her inspection of the scout and she found herself looking at a stocky fellow. His face could never be called beautiful. His eyes were the color of mud that had been stagnant for weeks if not months. His skin had the appearance of an albino skin that had been stretched then released. And his hair, if it could indeed be called that, was tangled into clumps that reeked of some indefinable combination of horse manure, dirt, and sweat.

Nadège fought the urge to hold her breath or at least cover her nose. She'd smelled worse, though this man seemed determine to beat all comers prior. "You have something for me?" she asked, her voice pitched lower to mimic a young man's.

The man pulled a pouch from his jerkin. Pushing it across the table, he abruptly stood and staggered from the tavern. She rose smoothly from the table, tossed a few coins on the table that were more than enough to pay for her ale and the bread she had consumed, and followed the man from the tavern.

Tristan rose and slipped out of the tavern, his brown eyes following the pair.

Out of view of the tavern, the grizzled spy stopped and motioned Nadège closer.

"You have something to tell me?" came Nadège's soft voice.

The man nodded. "Tell the queen that the Saxons are once again raising an army. That is why there has been peace."

Nadège nodded. "The pouch?"

"Gives details. Movements, armaments and names. Keep it safe, little one." Then the man turned and disappeared into the night.

Nadège stared down at the pouch for a moment before shoving it into her own jerkin. She started back towards the stables and her lips thinned as she spotted Tristan waiting with his horse already saddled. "Our business here is done."

Tristan nodded and swung himself into the saddle, waiting silently as Nadège saddled Dzerassa and led her from the stable to the courtyard. "Then let's go," he advised, kneeing his gray forward.

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"You talk in your sleep."

Nadège frowned at the back of the man riding in front of her. Shifting in the saddle, she stroked the crest that ran down the length of Dzerassa's neck. "I do?" she asked in a small voice.

Tristan nodded his head without looking back, keeping his dark eyes on the trees that lined the track they were riding upon.

Nadège grimaced and straightened in the saddle. "So, what did I say?"

Tristan glanced over his shoulder, eyes hidden by the fringe of his hair. "My name. Over and over again."

Nadège blanched then felt the heat rising from her chest, through her neck and then filling her face with a blush. "Oh."


	21. Chapter 21

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: I'm an evil, evil writer. And thank you to all of my wonderful reviewers. By now you all know that it doesn't matter if it's anonymous or not, I just want you to let me know what you like, what you don't and what you want to see more of. Your reviews keep the story coming. Besides, you all have great insights into this little tale.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-One: Embarrassment

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Gueneviere spread the skins across the table, the tanned hides bearing inked drawings showing the entirety of her husband's kingdom. Looking up, she smiled at the obviously uncomfortable Nadège. "Thank you, Nadège. You can go."

Nadège nodded gratefully and practically ran from the room where Arthur and his bride were meeting with Merlin. She hurried down the maze of hallways towards the chambers that she had been assigned. The handle of her door turned under her hand and she stepped into the bedroom, her hands already moving to her jerkin and tugging it over her head.

A familiar clearing of the throat stopped her mid-disrobing and she pulled the tunic off her head in confusion.

"I'm in the right room," she muttered, taking in the familiar items that occupied her room.

Tristan nodded from his seat in the corner. "You are."

Nadège frowned and dropped the jerkin onto the table beside the knight. She crossed her arms over her still-wrapped chest. "If I'm in my room, what are you doing here?"

Tristan rose to his feet in a fluid action and stood before her. "Why do you say my name in your sleep?" he asked quietly.

Nadège gaped at the knight and backpedaled, coming to a halt when she reached the wall.

"A simple question, my lady," he growled, stalking towards her.

Nadège looked wildly around the room for an escape before settling once again on the man before her. "Perhaps you were mistaken. I could have said anything."

Tristan considered this then shook his head, coming to a halt before the Amazone. "I did not mistake your calling my name in pleasure," he countered, reaching up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking the flesh below her ear.

Nadège's eyes widened in shock, heat pooling in her belly as a shiver went through her. "I need to bathe," she whispered, ignoring his question.

Tristan looked into her eyes then nodded and, to her amazement, smiled as if he had found what he was looking for. Dropping his hand from her cheek, he stepped back. "Then I shall leave you to your bath."

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The bath felt divine. One of the maids had dumped some sort of liquid into the boiling water, filling it with a thick layer of bubbles. Another had laid out a stack of thick bath sheets to wrap herself in once she had completed her bath. And a third had helped the Sarmatian from the rest of her grime-encrusted clothing and into the tub.

The water had cooled to just below scalding and for the first time in days Nadège felt not only human but female. After all, what wasn't more feminine than a bathtub full of bubbles. Her head fell back, dark hair hanging in wet strands against her throat and floating among the bubbles.

A pounding at the door summoned her back from the bliss of warm water and warmer air. She blinked away the drowsiness and sat up a little straighter in the tub, careful to make sure that the bubbles still hid all the important bits from view. The last thing she needed to do was frighten one of the maids with her scars. "Come in!" she called.

The door swung open and Nadège's eyes widened in surprise to find Stasja and Zaria standing in her doorway, the looks on their faces murderous.

"You leave in the middle of the night-" began Zaria.

"And don't tell us that you're going or when you'll be back-" picked up Stasja.

"Then come back and see THE QUEEEN and don't even tell us that you're in one piece," shrieked Zaria.

"And if you think that's fine, we have a problem!" finished Stasja, hands on her hips. Both of the women took a breath and looked at the slightly stunned woman in the bathtub. "What do you have to say for yourself?" demanded the dark-haired lover of Gawain.

Nadège shifted uncomfortably. This was not a good day. She'd been teased by the scout and now her first bath in too long was being spoiled by her two very good friends ranting at her. "I'm sorry?" she squeaked.

"What the bloody hell is going on here-oh, my…" petered out Galahad as he came to a stop in the doorway and found himself gazing upon a very naked Nadège sitting in a tub full of bubbles. The simple fact seemed to short-circuit his brain as he gaped.

Nadège dropped her head into her hands, trying to hide the blush that had bloomed on her cheeks. She must be in Arthur's Christian Hell. That was the only explanation for this day.

"Galahad, what's going on?" called Gawain before he came to a halt beside his younger friend. No one in the doorway said a thing.

Nadège pulled together the last vestiges of her dignity and raised her head. "Get out. All of you," she ordered. "And close the door behind you."

It seemed like forever before the door was shut and Nadège was once again alone. Sinking deeper into the tub, Nadège submerged her head under the water. After several minutes under water, she burst through the bubbles gasping for air. "I'm going to kill them," she announced to the empty room. "All of them. Slowly. Painfully."

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Lancelot frowned and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table that symbolized the equality of them all. "What do you mean, the Saxons are preparing an army?" he asked, his tone low.

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples. While he hadn't approved of Gueneviere's methods of sending an untried girl as a contact for the spy, it had yielded promising intelligence. "We have it on good authority, Lancelot. And Merlin has vouched for the spy that gave us the information."

Lancelot bristled and looked at the Woad leader. It was hard to remember that they were at peace, especially when so many of his brothers died at the hands of the Woads. "And where is this spy? Have him verify the information."

Gueneviere shook her head. "He cannot, Lancelot. He took a great enough risk in meeting my courier. If he was to be discovered, the Saxons would kill him."

Tristan listed dispassionately. _So_, he thought, _Nadège had taken up the role of courier to the young queen._

"Lancelot, we must prepare. An army must be raised and trained."

The knights gaped at the king. "An army?"

Merlin nodded. "You are not our enemy. The Saxon is."

Dagonet leaned forward, mimicking Lancelot's pose. "How long?"

Merlin shook his head. "They will be ready to invade before twelve moons have passed."


	22. Chapter 22

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: This chapter is short and has smut. If you are too young to be reading smut, then stop now. I'm serious. I'm not going to be accused of corrupting the innocent. If you want a summary, email me at and I'll send you the cliff notes version. Oh, and if you are old enough and/or already corrupted, please read and review.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-Two: Completion

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The wood of the stall rattled as two bodies fell against it. The sound of clothing being shucked from bodies and the soft thud of boots was the only sound in the stable other than the soft wicker of the horses. Suddenly the smaller of the two was lifted only to be set down on something hard, warm and pulsing. The moan that escaped the smaller was quickly captured by an unforgiving mouth.

For long moments there was no movement as each half of the pair grew accustomed to the tightness and the fullness of their joining. Then, with a grunt, the larger of the pair began to move, drawing a hissing breath from them both.

The movements became more frantic and the smaller of the pair found herself being banged against the wood of the stall, the wood scratching at her bare back. Small hands clenched on broad shoulders as breath came ragged.

Deep within the woman, tension coiled like a snake, robbing her of her breath and her sense. Moving on the man, she drew a ragged curse from her impaler. Faster and faster they moved. Together. Reaching for a completion that seemed out of reach.

Straining.

Pulling.

Breathing.

She arched, feeling the beginnings of that blessed completion at the periphery of her awareness, lapping at her sanity with ungraceful strokes.

More. She wanted more. Pulling the man tighter, she breathed his name.

"Tristan."

A rapping at the door snatched away not only the pleasure but also her phantom lover.

"Damn you, whoever you are!" Nadège shouted, shaking even as she pulled the covers tighter around her. The dreams were getting worse. And the worst part was that she knew the only way to rid herself of these dreams was to do whatever was done in the dreams. Which meant that she had to approach Tristan.

_It can just be about satisfying each other's needs_, she promised herself, even as a small voice in her mind cackled at her that she was mad to think that it would ever just be about "satisfying a need."

She promptly told the voice in her head to shut the bloody hell up.


	23. Chapter 23

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: It has come to my attention that I am evil. Sorry for teasing all of you with the last chapter. I've taken all of your reviews to heart and I hope you know how much I appreciate all the great reviews. Please, keep them coming. Especially if I'm not writing about something, you like something, or absolutely hate something. Um…this is actually a two-part chapter. I'll try to post the second chapter by tonight or tomorrow. And, as always the rules on smuttiness is that if you are too young or it's not your thing, email me and I'll send you the parts that are not smutty and a summary of the smutty parts.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-Three: Captivity

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"I need a remedy for haunting," grumbled Nadège.

Stasja looked up from her stitching to look at the blacksmith's apprentice, who was right now curling links for the chain mail that she was forging around an iron bar, then linking them together. Since the work did not require the forge, just brute strength, Nadège was able to do this work anywhere, including in the tavern. "Are you being haunted, Nadège?" came the soft question. The spirit world was no laughing matter.

Nadège looked up from her work and sighed. "I might as well be. I see him when I wake. I see him when I sleep," she growled. "Gods, he even woke me up with his racket this morning."

Stasja blinked. "Who?"

Nadège frowned. "The scout. That damnably lean and dark and handsome scout." She bit out each word as she coiled the metal.

Stasja giggled. "Lean, dark and handsome?" she repeated.

Nadège glared at her friend. "You're not helping."

Stasja held up her hands in defense and tried to stop giggling. "I apologize. This is no laughing matter. Gods forbid that he should find out that you like him. I swear that you have no social skills at all."

Nadège ignored Stasja as she began the time-consuming task of linking the circles she had formed. "An army, eh?"

Stasja shrugged. "An army of farm boys. Though those Woads seem to be pretty good warriors."

Nadège nodded. "But against a whole army of Saxons? No one expected the Sarmatians to stay. Even Arthur was supposed to evacuate with the Romans. But now the Saxons **know** that they," and she waved in the general direction of the entrance of the tavern, "will fight. They'll come prepared."

Stasja gaped. "You are a pessimist."

Nadège had once again turned her attention to the metal she was shaping. "Yes."

"Do you think positive about anything?"

Nadège grinned at Stasja. "The likelihood that I'm going to be an aunty from Gawain and you."

"You're impossible!"

A shrug was the answer. "Happy to oblige."

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"Why not?" demanded Gawain.

"Because I don't want to hurt him."

Gawain gaped at the idea of the tiny woman hurting the scout in a fight. "That's an idiotic notion. You can't hurt Tristan. He'd soon as kill you."  
Nadège shrugged and started towards the pile of weapons that Jols had so kindly provided. "I'm the queen's sparring partner. You'll have to ask her."

Galahad jogged up, grinning. "Guen says you can play with Tris."

"It's Queen Gueneviere, not Guen," she muttered. She picked up a long, sharp blade with a slight curve. "Don't say that I didn't warn you," she growled as she stalked towards the subject of her nightly dreams and the man who seemed to enjoy toying with her.

Squaring off with Tristan, she tuned out the laughter and conversations of the knights and focused only on the scout before her. He smirked at her, seeming to sense the frustration that sizzled over her skin. _Two can play at that game_, she decided.

He initiated the combat, swinging at her. She diverted his blow with her sword, moving to the side with the momentum of her sword. Then it was her turn. She swung low, slicing at his flanks. He countered, moving her blade aside. This continued for long minutes, the two locked in a dance of singing steel and grace. As they continued, they both became sweaty and tired. For Nadège, her muscles burned with each swing and block of her sword, her teeth rattling in her head whenever their swords met.

Meeting her combatant's eyes, she saw control.

_Damn his control_. She wanted to see the animal in that grace. And she had a feeling that would require fighting dirty. Thank goodness she was good at that. He swung his sword towards her and she did what he did not expect, spun into him. Slamming into his body, he stumbled a bit from the collision. She grinned then slammed the pommel of her sword into his jaw, rocking him back. He stumbled back, rubbing at his jaw and spitting out a small amount of blood from his mouth.

She grinned triumphantly. _Let him be controlled after that_, she thought. Her smile faltered as she watched Tristan coming back towards her, a feral glint in his brown eyes.

On the low wall surrounding the practice field the knights watched with trepidation as the two Amazone fight.

"He's going to kill her," muttered Galahad.

Bors snorted. "Or bed her."

Nadège, unaware of the commentary on the sidelines, held her sword and settled into a defensive posture. The attacks came quick and brutal. Nadège stumbled backwards under the blistering attacks, parrying his blows as best she could. A sweep of her legs by Tristan sent her tumbling to the ground, her sword landing out of reach. Lying on her back, her body aching from the sparring and her breath coming in tiny gasps, she watched the man standing over her, sword pointed to her heart. "I yield," she whispered, dropping her head back onto the ground and closing her eyes.

Tristan sheathed his sword and reached down, grabbing her hand. He pulled her to her feet, brown eyes sweeping over her from head to toe. She was uninjured, he noted in some cold part of his mind. His fingers curled under her chin, raising her face so that she would look him in the eye.

"Release the tiger and you're bound to be bitten."

Nadège's eyes widened at the whispered warning, stepping away from the man.

At the wall surrounding the practice field the conversation among the knights continued.

"Well, he didn't kill her," chuckled Gawain.

Galahad grinned. "And he didn't bed her."

Dagonet, who had listened to the conversation among his brothers with half an ear and watched the two fighters with his whole attention, grinned. "Yet."

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Galahad took a deep breath then started towards Lancelot. He had to do this. He had to do this soon. Stopping before the king's best friend, he cleared his throat.

Lancelot looked up from the game of bones he was playing and smiled. The youngest of his brothers looked nervous. Well, nervous and ready to vomit if the color of his skin was any indication. Standing, he stepped to the side of Galahad. "What can I do for you, Galahad?"

Galahad motioned to the entrance of the tavern. If he was going to be beaten to death, he'd prefer not to have an audience. Once they were outside the tavern, he came to a halt.

Lancelot came to a halt beside him. "What's the matter, Gal?"

Galahad hesitated. "I would like to court your sister."

Lancelot gaped at the youngest of his brothers.

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"Nadège, can you help me with something?" came the question from Vanora.

Nadège nodded, setting down the tray of drinks on the bar and following the tavern owner through the tavern. They came to a stop outside a barred door. "What can I do for you, Vanora?"

Vanora lifted the bar, opening the door. "I need a jug of oil off the last shelf. Would you be a dear and get it for me?"  
Nadège grinned and nodded, stepping through the doorway and starting for the shelf. The slamming door wiped the smile off her lips. Turning, she found that the door was indeed shut and she could hear the bar being dropped into place. She ran to the door, pounding her fists against the wood. "Van! Let me out!"

Vanora's voice filtered through the door. "I'm sorry, Nadège. But you two need to sort this out. You'll not be allowed out until morning, so you'd best make the most of it. There's a basket with bread, wine, and cheese. There's a bedroll with some furs. And there's a privy of sorts."

Nadège blanched as she began to understand. She was being locked up with someone else to sort something out. But who could it be? And why only one bedroll? She shook her head in the dim light. "I'm not playing whore to your patrons, Van!" she shouted. She could hear footsteps leaving and remembered that the door she'd been led through was in a far corner of the tavern, away from where a patron might venture. "Who's there?" she called to the room, stepping away from the door with some trepidation.

A rustle of clothing drew her to a darkened corner. There was a person, obviously male, tied up. She reached out cautiously and touched the man. He reared back, brown eyes wild, until he saw who had touched him. He murmured something, but the gag over his mouth smothered the sound.

Nadège crouched beside him, reaching to his head and untying the gag. Pulling it from his head, she dropped it on the ground and looked at him. "How did they get you?" she asked simply.

Tristan motioned for her to untie his bonds on his wrists and ankles. "They attacked while I slept." His voice was rough and he motioned for the jug of wine, the smooth pottery quickly lifted to his lips by Nadège's hand. "Said that we were becoming annoying."

Nadège chuckled mirthlessly. "Lovely. So what are we to do?"  
Tristan watched the woman with hooded eyes. "What would you like?"

Nadège choked, quickly drinking some wine to settle her throat. "What do you mean, 'what would I like'?" She rocked back so that she was sitting on her heels and glared at the scout. He gazed back dispassionately at her and Nadège felt a twitch in her cheek at the corner of her mouth. _So_, she thought, _he wants to know what I want?_ She rocked forward so that she was on her knees in front of him, her face millimeters from his. "I want to get out," she murmured from just above his lips.

Tristan smiled, a tiny thing that held the warmth of a thousand suns, and caught the back of her head with one of his hands. "Ah, my trapped raven," he soothed, drawing her down the rest of the way. "I'll make your captivity pleasant."

He tasted of wine and something else. Something powerful and male and needy. She found herself leaning into him as he explored her mouth, his tongue raking her teeth and the roof of her mouth and her cheeks before dueling with her tongue. Her hands were braced on the ground on either side of his head and he had complete possession of her mouth. His own hands slid down to her waist, guiding her so that she was resting atop him, her legs straddling his hips.

"We shouldn't do this," whispered Nadège, breaking the kiss and looking down into Tristan's brown eyes.

"Why?" asked Tristan, his fingers tracing patterns over her hips through her leather breeches.

Nadège frowned, her eyes shut. She couldn't come up with a good reason. There had to be one, she thought desperately. Finally she opened her eyes, meeting Tristan's brown eyed gaze. His eyes shifted from gold to brown to almost a shade of green in the dim light. "Because then we'll prove all of them right," she waved one of her bracing hand in the direction of the door.

Tristan's lips quirked up a bit. This was more smiling than she'd seen him do since they arrived at Castellus weeks ago. "That's a risk I'm prepared to take. Are you?"  
Nadège's blue eyes narrowed at the man below her. He was challenging her. And she couldn't resist a challenge that promised so much pleasure. "Fine. But on the bedroll. I'm sore enough from our battle yesterday," she muttered, slowly getting up from straddling the scout and suddenly feeling bereft of his touch. Reaching out, she took the scout's calloused palm in hers and helped him to his feet. Together they walked to where the provisions and bedroll had been set.

Crouching down, she unrolled the bedroll. There were indeed several furs for use as both cushioning and covering. These too were spread out. Glancing over her shoulder from her bedmaking, she found Tristan laying out the cheese, bread and wine. Plucking one of his daggers from his jerkin, he sliced through the cheese.

Nadège eyed his dagger then dragged her gaze up to meet his eyes. "Why did you not cut through the ropes?"

Tristan shook his head. "They tied my hands so that I could not reach them. My brothers know me too well."

Nadège nodded and with a final satisfied glance at the bedding, turned back to the repast that Vanora had provided. They were going to do exactly as she had advised and make the best of being locked in a storeroom together. She watched as Tristan prepared the cheese and bread. It almost seemed **domestic**.

Preparations done, they sat together and ate. Neither of them had eaten in hours, so no conversation interrupted their meal. When the cheese and bread were gone, they each settled onto the bedroll, the furs piled beneath them as they laid side by side.

"That was one of the nicest meals I've had since I came here," murmured Nadège, her eyes drifting shut with her full belly.

Tristan chuckled, the vibrations from his laughter traveling to his bedmate. "I'm sure that Brigid would appreciate hearing that."  
Nadège shook her head. "It's mostly the company, Tristan." She rolled onto her side, her head propped up on one hand, and looked at the knight. "You know what I am. What I was. Why would you want me?" The question held no self-loathing, just simple curiosity.

Tristan looked to his side. "The past cannot be changed. And you know as well what I am. What I have been. The same question applies to you."  
Nadège smiled. "Because you do not fear me. Just as I do not fear you."

Tristan nodded, his braids falling into his eyes.

Slim fingers brushed the braids from his eyes. She traced the tattoos that marked his cheekbones. "I always envied the boys. They got tattooed to show they were men."

Tristan's eyes watched her, not making any moves yet. "I remember that my sister cried when I got these," he ran his fingers over the tattoo, then mimicked the movement on Nadège's cheekbones. "Though after she saw me crying, she wasn't so envious."

Nadège raised an eyebrow. "I cannot see the fearless Tristan crying about anything, let alone a pair of tattoos."

Tristan smiled softly. "When you are ten and they hold you down to pound a piece of bone with ink on it into your cheekbones, you cry. And when brothers you've served with die rather than living to see home, you cry." He pulled her to him, his hands resting on her waist so that she could see his face. "But there will be no crying tonight."

Nadège snorted. "I should certainly hope not. Crying when making love is incredibly disheartening."

Tristan's eyebrow rose and he watched in the dim light as Nadège blushed. Oh, how he was looking forward to repeating everything they did this night in the full light of day or with a dozen candles blazing. "Clothes. Off. Now," he ordered, reaching for the belt that kept his leather jerkin shut. Discarding it and the jerkin, he then pulled his tunic off, leaving him bare from the waist up. He glanced at the woman beside him, watching as she finished peeling off her leather breeches and was folding them neatly to the side of their makeshift bed. Her boots already rested in the same place, as did her stockings. All that was left on her was her tunic.

That would do.

Nadège felt rather than heard Tristan move back to the bedroll, his breath warm against her neck. She turned to the man she would be sharing this bedroll with. He had stripped to the waist, the little light that entered through the barred door showing lean musculature and powerful sinew. The scars that crisscrossed breast, belly, and shoulder were familiar, almost as if Nadège were peering into a looking glass at herself.

She cautiously raised a hand, trailing fingertips over his skin. She felt it ripple beneath her digits, his muscles tightening and releasing as she traced his scars. "So beautiful," she murmured, her head dipping down to kiss one of the scars, the one that followed his collarbone. It was likely the oldest as it had faded to a barely noticeable line.

Tristan sucked in a breath as Nadège's lips came in contact with his collarbone. His hands slid beneath her tunic, tracing the scars that crisscrossed her back. He traced the musculature of this fighter, reveling in the flutters of her muscles as he stroked her skin. All the while trying to breathe.

Something was tugging at Tristan's memory. This scenario seemed familiar. He shoved the thought away as he felt lips close over his left nipple, the stroke of Nadège's tongue zinging pleasure straight south. He groaned, pulling this dark-haired woman tighter to himself.

Nadège slung a leg over Tristan's lap, her lips still playing over his chest. She felt his hands on her back, pulling her closer to him. Her hands closed over his hips, pulling him tighter into herself. She could feel-him. Dear sweet Gods, how was that going to…and then his mouth was doing wicked things to her throat and she was whimpering his name.

Whimpering.

_What self-respecting Amazone whimpered_, she thought fiercely as she claimed his lips once again.

Tristan grinned. This was going to be fun. For the first time in far too long he had a woman in his arms who treated lovemaking as a game to be won by the one giving and receiving the most pleasure. He followed her lead in the kiss, letting her become accustomed to his mouth, his teeth, his tongue. She tasted of wine and bread and something indefinable. While she kissed him, he lifted her tunic, baring her stomach to his hands. He stroked the flesh with the backs of his hands. There were scars there too, scars made from stabbing and slashing, some recent and some long healed.

Breaking the kiss, he pulled the tunic over her head and pushed her backwards until she lay flat on the bed of furs. She looked like some ancient war goddess, her dark hair splayed over the fur and the dim light painting her curves in silver. He pulled off his boots and stockings then stood, his hands going to the waistband of his breeches. Soon they too lay on the ground with his boots and stockings and he was in the bed, lying next to Nadège. His hand pressed to her belly, his fingers dark against her pale skin.

Nadège watched with passion-drugged eyes as Tristan leaned over her, his mouth descending onto one of her breasts. She arched into his mouth, hands catching in his braids. She dimly remembered men with those braids from the village where she'd been taken. They were the mark of a leader. The mark of a warrior. Her breath was ragged when he switched his attention to her other breast, his hands holding her still beneath him.

Enough teasing. Growling, she pushed him off, following him until she lay atop him. Teasing could come later, she decided. Right now there was one thing that had to be done. Straddling him once again, she met his eyes, silently requesting permission. The nod and the grin told her that he agreed with her course of action and she sank onto him, gasping at the feeling.

Tristan's hands rested on her hips, guiding and supporting her as the enveloped him. Gods, the heat. He threw his head back, glad for the furs or he'd be unconscious during one of the best-he didn't know what to call this. This wasn't a "fuck" with one of the tavern's whores, though they were talented. And this wasn't a "roll in the hay" with a farm girl. What was it?

All questions fled his mind as the woman atop him began to move, drawing a moan from his lips. He pulled her down, lips and tongues battling as they moved together. Skin slick with sweat moved against skin as they moved faster and faster, growls and moans escaping their lips in a cacophony of sound as they reached for that pleasure that seemed just out of reach.


	24. Chapter 24

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: The game of chess originated in the Persian area around the second century B.C. Considering that Tristan, if the sword is any indication, has an eastern influence and since the areas covered by Sarmatia did cover parts of Iran and possibly Uzbekistan, two locations associated with the invention of chess, it would be theoretically possible that Tristan would know the game of chess. And to my reviewers, thank you. Please, keep them coming. I'm really bad at knowing if I'm doing well on a story and drive my husband crazy going "They hate it!" all the time. Also, Chapter Twenty-Three was rewritten with the scene between Nadège and Tristan having more than just them stripping their clothes off. If you hit the chapter before I rewrote it, I recommend rereading it.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-Four: Movements

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Gawain looked at his friend and shook his head. "Why are you so unhappy?"

Galahad looked up from the breakfast that Brigid had set before him. His stomach was turning over and over and he pushed away the ham and eggs. "He told me what he would do to me if I hurt Zaria."

Gawain chuckled. "Then don't hurt her."

Galahad nodded. "It's just that I forgot that the Iazyges knew so much about torture."

Dagonet dropped onto the bench beside Galahad, took one look at the slightly green knight, and stood, moving to the other side of the bench to sit next to Gawain. "What is the matter with him?" he asked Gawain, motioning to the youngest knight before turning his attention to his breakfast.

Gawain grinned and gave an abbreviated version to the large knight.

Dagonet rested his blue eyed gaze on Galahad. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his breakfast.

After all, today would be a long day finding recruits for Arthur's army.

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"You look beautiful, Zaria," reassured Nadège from her seat on the youngest Sarmatian woman's bed. Stasja was flitting around the blonde, pins in her mouth as she adjusted Zaria's gown to give the best effect to her body. "He's going to trip over his tongue."

Zaria shot a sharp look at Nadège. Since the eldest of them had been locked in a storage room with Tristan, the blue-eyed woman seemed to have found her softer side. Zaria's even caught Nadège singing. And Nadège did not sing. "I don't want him to trip over his tongue, Nadège. I want him to like me."  
Pulling the pins from her mouth and sliding them into the fabric, Stasja looked up from where she knelt on the ground. "Zaria, child, he already _likes_ you. What you want him to do is fall in love with you."

Zaria considered this as Stasja slid her quick, tiny stitches into the new hem and tied off the loose strings.

"There, all done."

Zaria looked into the looking glass hanging on the wall of her room. In the mirror was no longer the awkward young girl who preferred to be on horseback or fighting than any other activity. Instead, here stood a graceful young woman. Her hair had been carefully braided thanks to Nadège's skillful fingers. And now she had a gown that actually fit. "I look strange," she announced, turning this way, then that way to see her reflection in the mirror.

Nadège slid her legs off the bed and stood. "You look lovely. Now go see that young man of yours."

Zaria nodded then hurried from her bedchamber.

"Do you think anything's going to happen?" came the question from Stasja as she tucked away her dressmaking tools into her satchel and rested its strap on her shoulder.

Nadège chuckled. "I have no idea. Though I think Lancelot put the fear of the Gods into Galahad." She stretched her arms over her head as they left Zaria's room. Closing the door, she met her friend's gaze. "It's nice not to have to be the one issuing the threats," she admitted before starting back towards her own room.

After all, they both still had to work in the tavern this evening.

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"I hate Gauls," muttered Stasja, slipping past Nadège. With one of their own on an evening stroll with Galahad, the work seemed to have been doubled. It also did not help that the advance party of the bishop's convoy had appeared. The new patrons were loud, rowdy, and showed little in the way of manners towards the women serving them.

Having distributed all of her mugs of ale to their intended patrons, she turned back towards the bar. Pausing for a breath to wait while Vanora reloaded her tray, Stasja allowed her honeyed eyes to sweep the tavern. While they could have certainly used the assistance of Zaria, they would make due. Tonight both Nyssa and Elspeth were pulling their fair share of the work, both girls as little inclined to near the Gauls as any other woman in this establishment.

Several new girls, fresh from the countryside that had produced the raw recruits that were being trained by the Sarmatians, had volunteered to work in the tavern. Those girls looked as if they had seen their ancestors' corpses rise from the ground, dance a jig, and then give them a blessing. In other words, the new girls would not likely last the night.

Nadège had been left with the Gauls, in part because she was one of the only one of them who went about with a multitude of blades and no compunction about using them. Also because Tristan had a clear view of the Gauls and was playing with his own blades in an intimidating fashion.

A strong arm wrapped around her waist as she waited at the bar, a familiar beard brushing against her throat. "I thought I told you to wait," she whispered.

Gawain chuckled, his laughter reverberating through her back where he was pressed. "And I have been, sweet. I just wanted to remind you of what we'll enjoy once you come to bed."

Stasja arched an eyebrow and turned so that she faced her lover. "Was that your intention?" she breathed.

Gawain nodded. "Indeed it was."

Stasja stood on her tiptoes and caught his lips with her own. Breaking the kiss, she smiled beatifically at him and motioned him back towards the table with the knights. "Wonderful. You have done so. Now go sit down with your friends so I can work."

Gawain grinned ruefully and headed back to the table, pausing when he felt her swat his buttocks through his breeches. Glancing over his shoulder, he made certain that she read the promise in his eyes prior to returning to the table to reclaim his seat.

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The board glittered in the candlelight, the ivory and ebony evenly spaced and fitted. Upon it sat the pieces, their faces impassive and unseeing. On either side of the board the combatants sat, eyes fixed on the board.

"Tristan, tell me again why we play this?" asked Arthur, green eyes moving to the dark pieces surrounded his king.

Tristan smirked. "To learn the difference between strategy and tactics." With that he tipped over his commander's king.

Arthur sighed. "How goes the training?" he asked. He stared down for a moment at the game board before rising from his chair and crossing to the table in his room. This chess match between them never ended well for him, Tristan being a true master of the board that he had carried from his native land to Briton.

It was Tristan's turn to sigh. "They are young. Untrained." When he spoke no more, Arthur turned to look at his scout.

"And?"

Tristan shrugged. He did not need to tell Arthur that to depend on farm boys was foolish. However, with Rome gone they had little choice but to depend on the Britons and the Woads. The Woads had fought well. Would the Britons fight as well?

Arthur nodded. He didn't have to ask what his scout was thinking. The same question was in the eyes of each of his men, though they masked it to the recruits they trained. "You should go. I heard that Brigid was making a special meal tonight."

Tristan rose smoothly from his chair, fingers resting on the board. "Will you come?"

Arthur nodded and watched as the man only a few summers older than he walked out of his chamber.


	25. Chapter 25

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews. Please, keep them coming. I can tell you that a big reason why this is coming so fast is that I've got all of your wonderful feedback. You are wonderful and I promise to keep writing as fast as my little fingers will carry me.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-Five: Blood

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Galahad watched the sun slowly rise. They'd spent the evening together, just talking and sitting with each other. The conversation had somehow gotten to the threats that Lancelot had issued and Zaria huffing angrily at her brother's meddling. Her anger had occupied Zaria's mind until Galahad's lips had found her earlobe.

"You're distracting me from plotting evil against my brother," she murmured, brown eyes drifting shut.

Galahad grinned, teeth tugging on her flesh. "I could not," he whispered, pausing, "in good conscience allow harm to come to Lancelot because of me."

Zaria giggled, snuggling tighter against the youngest knight. "You are a horrible influence on me," she teased.

Galahad pulled back, his lips pulled into a smile.

"Always, my lady."

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"What a beauty!"

Brigid looked up from the bread she was kneading to watch as Nadège lifted a giggling Aoife, named for the mother of the mythic Cuchulainn's only son, into the air. The month-old girl watched with inquisitive grey eyes as the Sarmatian woman cradled her to her breast, whispering in Sarmatian.

Ordinarily Nadège would be locked in a struggle with iron in the smithy but today was a special day and Edric had closed his shop for the day. Today Bishop Germanus was scheduled to arrive at the fortress. And Nadège had appeared in the kitchen, curious to truly meet Brigid's children after the twins had received their names in a ceremony presided over by Merlin.

"And you, young Iollan, will be breaking hearts all over this country," promised the dark haired Sarmatian, looking down at the infant with the dark brown fuzz and the brilliant blue eyes. The younger of them, the little boy was still asleep and seemed determined that no one would interrupt his nap.

Brigid chuckled. "Careful, Nadège, or my children will have heads the size of Vanora's cow. Which reminds me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Nadège shrugged, still cradling Aoife in her arms. "I cannot help that your children are the picture of divinity. And as to my presence in your kitchen, it is my hour to watch you."

"Watch me?" came the low voice of the Hibernian.

Nadège nodded, rocking the infant girl in her arms. "Aye, the bishop will come today. He is a Christian, which we Sarmatians are not." The blue eyed woman looked up from Brigid's eldest child. "Christians do not take kindly to pagan women with visions. And you are Sarmatian, lady. These children make you blood kin."  
Brigid sighed and returned to the bread, driving the heel of her hand into the dough. "And I have no say."

Nadège shook her head, making faces at Aoife. "Nay, healer. You are a queer one and we must protect you."

A shake of her red curls was her only answer as she once again turned to her work.

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Tristan stroked the flanks of Wasgergi with the curry comb, carrying on a conversation in his native tongue with his horse. Across the stable he could see Dzerassa, happily munching on oats for both she and the foal growing insider her. "You couldn't be a gentleman, could you?" he scolded his horse with a smile.

Wasgergi snorted and shot a look at his rider that clearly showed what the horse thought of _that_ idea. An answering nicker from the mare across the stable seconded Wasgergi's opinion.

He should have expected that Dzerassa would agree with Wasgergi. The mare and stallion had been drawn to each other as a moth to a flame and their passion seemed not to abate even as Dzerassa grew with the life inside her belly. Not that the mares of Castellus's herd cared much for either since Wasgergi had always been a fractious stallion.

In that, he decided, he and his mount were more alike than not. He'd been left to his own company and thoughts for the better part of fifteen years in part due to his own behavior and his reputation. He was not a mindless killer as some would say, though he had come near after the death of his Ysolde. Nor was he a monster. If he were truly a monster even Wasgergi would shy from him. No, he was a master of war.

Just as his people had been for generations.

He stifled a smile as he reflected on Arthur's many attempts over fifteen years to draw his scout from his solitude. The Roman had even suffered through humiliating chess matches every night to simply show his scout that no matter what the fort might say about Tristan, Arthur had no fear of him. There had been one good thing to come out of those chess matches, however. If Arthur were inclined to play anyone in to fort, he could beat them.

Well, anyone but an Amazone, he amended. His tribe was playing with the dark and light pieces practically in swaddling clothes, though he had not realized that there were so many variations on the game of chess. A grin tugged at his lips as he finished with the care of his horse and put away the horse care tools. "I shall see you later, Wasgergi. Keep an eye on your lady." Nodding to Dzerassa, he stepped from the stable. 


	26. Chapter 26

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Well, gentle readers I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that I will not be closing on my first home until August. The good news is that because I'm not moving until August, we will not be missing any updates of the story. In other words, I'm going to keep slamming out chapters as quickly as my muses let me. See, always knew I could look on the sunny side. Besides, I would miss all of your comments far too much. Talk about withdrawal. So, please, keep them coming.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-Six: Diplomacy

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Fulcina slammed the door of her chambers shut and spun to face the dark knight. He had already shed his armor, the armor that he had come to her wearing, and was in the process of tugging off his boots.

The thud of Fulcina's dress falling to the floor drew his eyes up and his breath at the vision before him. Raven locks tumbled over her shoulders, hiding the smooth light olive skin that he knew was there. The only thing hiding her rounded form from him was the thin linen shift that she insisted on wearing beneath her gown. In the pale sunlight filtering through her shuttered windows, Fulcina's curves were gilded. His fingers itched to drag that flimsy garment up, baring her soft thighs, her smooth belly, and her rounded breasts to him.

But, as his lover had reminded him as they climbed the staircase together to her rooms, he had wanted to be courted. And this was a game that she was willing to play through. She'd promised him a show, private of course, but a show nonetheless.

As she slipped her feet from her slippers, they were both startled from their game by a clattering in the courtyard below.

"The bishop?" whispered Fulcina, standing still as her lover moved to the window, peering through the slat to the yard below.

Lancelot looked over his shoulder, his face unreadable, and nodded.

With a sigh, Fulcina donned her gown again and headed down the stairs, leaving her lover in her rooms.

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"Ah, Arturious, it is good to see you!" crowed the bishop as he bounded down the steps from his carriage. There was no need for the deception used in his last visit to Castellus, as there was now peace between the Woads and Arthur.

Arthur smiled tightly at his former friend and grasped the bishop's forearm in greeting. "Welcome to Britain, Bishop. Again," he added. "Was it a long journey?" he asked, his politeness never failing him.

Germanus nodded, dusting the front of his robes. "Yes, yes, it was."

Arthur nodded and motioned Jols forward, glad that the squire kept the distaste from all but his eyes. "Jols will show you to your quarters while you are visiting. We shall meet when you are refreshed."

Germanus nodded, following the squire. "Yes, yes, I must rest."  
As the bishop disappeared into the fortress, the king turned to his men, silently dismissing them from attending on the bishop any further.

The men drifted away in silence, their thoughts their own.

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"To those who did not live to see this day," toasted Arthur, his chalice raised. The knights lifted their goblets as well and then took a healthy swig of the wine. As the men once again took their seats, their eyes went as one to the bishop, who had taken his seat at the left hand of Arthur.

"Your sacrifice truly paved the way for this glorious kingdom," intoned Germanus, eyes sweeping over the knights. "It is a pleasure to be in the company of such heroes."  
The men shifted in discomfort. They didn't want to like the bishop, the bishop who had ordered them north of the wall and to near-certain death. But had they not been ordered north, then Queen Gueneviere would likely have died at the hands of the Saxons, as would Dagonet's Brigid. The fact that the bishop was only following the orders of his pope did not improve on their discomfort.

"Thank you, Bishop Germanus," offered Arthur, his body tense. "Now, what brings you to our fair isle?" he asked.

Germanus grinned. "The Holy Father is very interested in the condition of his flock. He believes that our departure from Britain may have been premature," he added, steepling his fingers in front of his lips.

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Galahad threw himself down on the bench, his head falling against his hands. "Premature?" he repeated incredulously as the other knights took their seats around him. "Their leaving was premature?" he muttered, accepting the mug of ale that was pressed into his hand by a passing tavern girl.

There were now so many of them, these fresh-faced country girls eager for the coin of the realm and the excitement of the fortress, that none of the men could remember the names of these new tavern girls. It didn't help that these girls quickly tired of the raucous men, the groping, and the overwhelming stench of bodies sweating in an enclosed area.

Gawain sighed and stared into his mug of mead. And things had been going so well, he thought. He chanced a look up from his drink, his blue eyes widening as he noticed that for the first time since the three Sarmatian women had taken to the role of bar wench, they were all armed. And well armed at that.

And they were all staying close to the kitchen.

A quick glance told the tawny maned knight that Tristan was watching the Sarmatian women as well, his graceful fingers straying often to the blades he kept secreted in his tunic.

What did the women know, and for that matter, what did Tristan know, that Gawain did not?

Rising from the bench, he started towards the kitchen, determined to get sense from the one person who could provide it-and she wasn't Sarmatian.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Brigid ladled the stew into the wooden bowl and set it in front of Gawain, grinning as the bear-like knight began to eat with gusto. He'd appeared in her kitchens, cup of mead in hand, and demanded to know why Stasja, Nadège, and Zaria were all hovering over her as if she were on her death bed. To which she'd replied that if he wanted to know why the madwomen of Sarmatia were hovering, she should ask them. And ordered him to sit.

She still didn't understand what the fuss was. So she had visions. She also could cook and, if the patronage in Vanora's tavern was any indication, she did it quite well. She was a very good healer and she was a friend of the queen. If nothing else, she should be safe thanks to all of those associations.

Satisfied that Gawain was filling his belly and not interested in asking questions, she turned back to her work. After all, dinner for the bishop wasn't going to cook itself.


	27. Chapter 27

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: As promised, more Galahad/Zaria, more Lancelot/Fulcina, and just more in general. Thank you to all of you wonderful reviewers. And thank you for keeping reading this story. Please, keep the reviews coming. Please.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Practice

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Brigid trailed her fingertips over the back of Dagonet's hand, earning herself a sharp look from her husband for teasing him. She stifled a sigh at his cross expression and perched herself on his knee.

"Brigid," he groaned, letting his head fall against his wife's back. "Don't tease me. You know that we can't until-"

"I'm healed," giggled Brigid, turning so that she could see her husband. She suddenly was very happy that she'd asked One to watch the twins. "I saw Merlin's healer and she pronounced me-"

Dagonet's mouth capturing hers interrupted her explanation. A moment later they were moving as one towards their bed, the fortress's healer cradled against his chest and her head resting against his heart. Before they were halfway to the bed, Dagonet looked down at his wife. "You're not teasing are you? We can really make love without harming you?"

Brigid squirmed in his arms so that she could look up at him. "Dagonet, I swear to you that I'm not teasing you. And if you do not do something to me within the next minute I swear by all that is holy that I will combust," she warned with a growl.

Dagonet chuckled and finished the short trip to the bed, plopping his wife in the middle of the mattress. "We wouldn't want that," he teased, climbing onto the mattress with her and crawling towards her, for all the world reminding his wife of a big cat stalking her.

Brigid shook her head, thick curls bouncing around her head. "No, husband. I'd make a horrible blaze."  
Dagonet finally reached his wife, pinning her back onto the blankets and crawling up her, every inch of his body on fire where they touched. "On the contrary," he replied, tracing the neckline of her gown with one calloused finger and marveling at the way that Brigid trembled beneath him. "I happen to think that you'd make a wonderful conflagration." He bent his head, breathing against the curve of her neck before grazing the flushed skin with his teeth. A predatory smile spread across his lips as she arched up against him with a moan.

"Dag," she begged, opening quicksilver eyes to meet his sapphire gaze.

Dagonet reached up, fingers trailing from temple to chin. "My lover, my wife, my helpmate," he whispered, trailing kisses up her neck to the spot below her ear that made her shiver helplessly. "Now I know why you locked the door."

A giggle was swallowed up by his hungry kiss and soon all was forgotten save the moment.

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"Ah, little ones, don't cry," murmured One, rocking Iollan in her arms, hips rocking in time. "Your mama and papa are just-" the eldest of Bors's and Vanora's children considered how to tell the fussing children what their parents were doing. "Practicing making more of you," she finished, bouncing the little boy gently.

Iollan apparently did not approved and let lose a new wail, much to the girl's consternation.

"Give him here," came a voice from the doorway.

One turned, somewhat surprised to see Jols standing in the doorway of the tavern. "Jols, you know of babies?" she asked, starting towards the squire.

Jols nodded, eyes dropping shyly as he started towards the squalling infant. "Aye, I held each of you at one time or another," he admitted, taking the infant boy in his arms. "Ah, little Iollan," he murmured with a small lift of his lips, causing the baby to stop mid-wail. "Now, you must not upset One. She's done right by you and you're lucky to have her tending you," he scolded gently, smiling at the little boy.

One smiled and started towards a now moving Aoife. Lifting the tiny girl, she began to sing softly to the baby.

"You have your mother's voice," approved Jols, now rocking a quiet Iollan in his arms. "You should sing more often."

One shook her head, blushing. "Nay, Jols. I haven't mother's voice," she countered, looking down into the little girl's eyes. "Why do you stay?" she asked, looking up to meet the squire's brown eyes.

Jols shrugged, still holding the tiny boy. "I don't have much else to do. This has been my life as much as it has been your father's."

One nodded. She'd never really thought about what it would have been like to have her father free, she realized. For most of her life it had been a constant struggle to be accepted despite being a Sarmatian bastard and worrying about her father on every mission. She had to admit that she preferred life now much better than during her father's slavery to Rome. Now the most that her father risked was a tongue lashing by her mother or a hurt head from shouting at the new recruits that he was molding into Arthur's new army. "I suppose it's hard to move on," she allowed.

Jols nodded, smiling down at the drowsy infant in his arms. "I think that he's ready for a nap." Crossing to the cradle that the two children shared, he laid the little boy down and tucked the blanket around his middle and covering the tiny toes and legs. The squire straightened and crossed back towards Bors's eldest daughter. "I, for one, am glad that I stayed," he announced with a smile down at the girl and child before leaving the tavern.

One smiled down at Aoife as the baby cooed. "Ah, you like him too."

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Bors cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the knights around the table. Thankfully they had yet to be joined by the bishop and for a brief moment the seven men could reflect on the lives lost and their new life together.

"Yes, Bors," offered Arthur, waving for the knight to speak.

Bors stood, obviously uncomfortable. "Just thought I'd tell you that the brood have picked names. Well, with our blessing, of course," he added hastily. "Van said we can't call 'em by numbers any more so they're now going to be named." He sat down with not a little relief.

Lancelot leaned forward, wicked humor glittering in his brown eyes. "Oh? And what are their names now?"  
Bors frowned. "Well, One decided to take my mother's name. So, she's now Kitra. And Two decided that he wanted to be known as Tarrant, and Three is working on it. The others are trying to figure out what best to call them, though Gilly thinks it's all silly," he admitted.

Dagonet shook his head. "Having a name is never silly. I think that Kitra is a beautiful name. And she reminds me of your mother."

Bors nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Dag."

Arthur smiled at his men. "Now, on to less pleasant matters," he began.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Galahad straightened slowly. "What is that?" he asked carefully.

Zaria looked up from the mash she was tending to look at the knight. He was looking into the contraption she had built to distill the voda. "That is voda. Though it's a bit different recipe," she added.

Galahad cocked an eyebrow at the woman he was courting. "Ah. So, what will it taste like?" he asked, crossing the small room to the young brewer.

Zaria grinned. "Like heaven distilled, my sweet."

"Really? I think that I need a taste," he growled, pulling the blonde to him. "To see if it truly rivals heaven."

Zaria giggled. "Go. You're distracting me from my work," she chastised, wriggling free of the dark-haired knight and pushing him towards the doorway.

Galahad let himself be pushed to the door then came to a halt. "Only if you promise to show me what heaven tastes like," he challenged, brown eyes meeting brown.

Zaria blushed crimson. "Go," she repeated, closing the door on the knight. Leaning back against the door, she let out a breath she had been holding. It was getting harder and harder not to give into temptation around the dark-haired knight.

Now she knew why there were always chaperones around courting couples.

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"Now, where did we leave off?" came the breathless question from Lancelot, pressing his Roman lover against the stone wall.

"About here," replied Fulcina, dragging his head down to her level so that she could capture his lips. For long minutes they sampled each other, enjoying the flavors and textures of their lips, mouths and throats. "We need to get to a room," she advised breathlessly.

Lancelot grinned down at his lover. "Aye, for I have plans for you." Stepping back from the dark-haired woman, Lancelot clasped her hand in his and started purposefully towards his own chambers. "And no more interruptions by bishops," he added.

Fulcina smiled as they finally came to his room and stepped through the doorway into his chambers.

The lock was thrown home with finality, banishing the outside world from the reality of the lovers.


	28. Chapter 28

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: My husband pointed out that I had been remiss in giving Bors and Gawain spotlight. Therefore, this chapter will focus on those two. Apologies but we'll pick up with the other boys next chapter.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-Eight: More

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"They want more," groaned Vanora, pouring the voda into cups for the serving girls to take to the tables. While the tavern had never been busier, even before Badon Hill, the quality of patron had diminished severely. She had grown used to not having to fend off wandering Roman hands. While the addition of the Sarmatian women to the tavern's workforce meant that the wife of Bors rarely tended to the tables, Vanora winced every time that one of her "girls" was manhandled by Roman hands.

"Ah, my lovely," crooned Bors, sliding his broad hands around his wife's waist, pulling her back against him. "I've missed you."

Vanora looked over her shoulder at her husband. "You saw me this morning," she reminded the barrel-chested man at her back. She paused, her eyes searching his face. "When are you leaving?"

Bors smiled at her. "I could never keep anything from you, could I? We leave in the morning. We haven't heard from the villages in the far North for at least a month and Arthur wants to make sure that the Saxons haven't landed."

Vanora nodded, stepping away from her husband. She'd watched him go so many times when he was bound to Rome by a pledge of his ancestors. It wasn't any easier letting him go now that he was free. In fact, it was harder now that Bors had a choice in his duty. "When?"

Bors leaned against the bar, brown eyes assessing her reaction. He knew this woman better than any. He knew her laughter. He knew her joy. And he knew her passion. "Dawn."

Vanora nodded, motioning Zaria towards her. Handing the blonde woman the tray in her hand, she turned to her husband. Taking his hand in hers, she led him towards the staircase and their chambers. "But tonight you are mine."

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Stasja looked at their twined fingers, her expression far away.

"I love you, too, little one," murmured Gawain, his eyes closed.

Stasja gaped at the golden man lying next to her. She had thought him fast asleep. "You do?" she asked, startled and not a little awed. Had he heard her whisper the same endearment moments ago?

Gawain opened his eyes. In a few hours he would be in the saddle, riding away from Castellus with his brothers, leaving Arthur behind to the less than enviable task of dealing with the Romans. "Yes, I do." Pulling the dark-haired woman to him, he met her golden gaze. "And I heard you tell me the same."

Stasja blushed, trying to look away from her lover. Somehow, him knowing her feelings left her more exposed than her actual nakedness.

Gawain rolled to his side, the blankets bunched at his hips, the lengths of their bodies now pressed together. "Will you have me? I own nothing in this life."

Stasja smiled, blinking back the tears that had suddenly welled in her eyes. "I have even less, Gawain. Will you have me?"  
Gawain nodded, placing a gentle kiss on the tip of Stasja's nose. "Always."

Stasja threw her arms around Gawain's neck, pulling his mouth down where she wanted it. When they finally broke the kiss, she let her cheek rest against his heart. "As I will be yours. Always."


	29. Chapter 29

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: I apologize that these chapters are coming so fast. I promise that I'm going to do deal with the boys next chapter. This chapter, instead of focusing on the boys, instead became a snapshot of the homes the boys left behind at the fortress. Don't worry, we're picking up with the boys next chapter. Oh, and please let me know what you think. Reviews are what keeps me writing and also help me to see what you really want to see next.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Homefront

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"Mama, One likes a boy," sing-songed Gilly, hands clasped behind his back as he smiled at his oldest sister.

"No, I don't," growled the newly named Kitra, lunging for her younger brother, only to brought to a halt by her mother raising her hand.

Vanora arched an eyebrow at her daughter. "Who is it?"

Kitra shook her head, her eyes mutinous and her jaw set.

Vanora sighed. Turning to her son, she narrowed her eyes at Gilly. "It's not nice to tell tales on your sister. Now go play, Gilly," she ordered. Her son gone from the kitchen, she turned back to her daughter. "And while you are fifteen and of marriageable age, it's for your father and I to decide if you can be courted," she chastised.

Kitra nodded, eyes fixed on the flagstone floor of the kitchen. "I know, Mama," she replied softly. "It's not like he even likes me," she added under her breath.

Vanora smiled, reaching out and touching her taller daughter's shoulder. "Soon it'll be spring. And if a young man that you like asks your papa for permission to court you, then I'll make him give his blessing. Agreed?"

Kitra nodded again.

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"You've changed, Nadège," observed Gueneviere, blocking a strike by the older woman.

Nadège grinned, then started to swing a quick series of hits at her queen. "Really? How so?" she asked conversationally, not hinting at the burn in her lungs and ache in her bones. With each block or connection, her smile widened. There was an advantage to private sparring lessons with Arthur's scout, she decided. Many advantages.

Gueneviere began her own attack, sword and dagger working in deadly concert. "Among other things," she replied, working hard to maintain a level tone with no hint of exhaustion, "you don't snap half as much as you used to. I think that our scout might have something to do with that?"

The two women broke apart, circling each other warily.

"And if I say yes?" came the cautious question from Nadège, blue eyes assessing her opponent's condition. After all, this was training, not an excuse for murdering her queen. Even if the queen had a nasty habit of being able to read Nadège as easily as the Sarmatian read half a dozen languages.

Gueneviere grinned, testing Nadège's defenses with her sword. "Then you are as human as the rest of us. It is a comforting thought."

Nadège chuckled. "It's comforting to know that I have a weakness?" An overhead chop by the queen was quickly blocked and diverted.

Gueneviere retreated a pace. "If your weakness is Tristan, it's not such a weakness, I think."

Nadège nodded. "Aye, I see your point."

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"Husband?" called Gueneviere, slowly pushing open the door to the chambers they shared.

Arthur looked up from the pile of scrolls he had been reading and signing, green eyes tinged red with exhaustion. "My queen," he murmured, motioning the scribe towards the door. The dark haired man waited until the scribe had shut the door behind him before rising and crossing to his wife. "How was your day?"

Gueneviere smiled, tugging her tunic over her head and dropping it on the floor, leaving her bare from the waist up. A garden of bruises in a variety of colors were beginning to color her shoulders, arms, and chest from the sparring she enjoyed. "Refreshing," she answered, slipping into her husband's arms.

Arthur wrinkled his nose, wrinkles crinkling the corners of his eyes. He bit his lip, holding his wife and trying not to laugh.

"I smell, don't I," she giggled.

Arthur loosed a guffaw as tears collected in his eyes. "I love you, my dear." Releasing his wife, he motioned to the bath before the fire with steam rising from the water. "I knew that you would want to refresh yourself before we meet with the bishop."

Gueneviere smiled up at her husband, batting her dark lashes. "You could join me?"

Arthur grinned, shaking is head. "Nay, my love. If I join you in that bath we would never leave these rooms."

Gueneviere turned towards the bath, her hips swaying in the tight breeches worn for sparring practice, her back bare and glowing alabaster in the filtered sunlight. "And that, husband, would be the idea."

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Brigid balanced the tray of food against her hip, rapping her knuckles against the heavy wood of the bishop's chamber. She wasn't sure why but every single serving girl in the fortress seemed terrified of the bishop. Personally she didn't care for the bishop and his machinations, but it was either deliver his food to his rooms or have him descend upon the tavern and scare off the Woads and Britons who filled Vanora's coffers. And none of the maids were willing to go to his rooms-though for what reason the healer could not fathom.

"Who is it?" came the cultured tones of the bishop.

Brigid frowned. "Your meal, sir!" she called, glaring down at the mutton, greens, and bread that she had set on the tray.

The door swung open and Brigid stepped through the doorway, a quick scan of the room telling her that Germanus was now returning to a table at the center of the room. "You can leave it, girl," he growled, turning his attention to the scrolls piled on the table.

Brigid nodded, setting out the plates and food without looking up at the bishop. If the Sarmatian girls knew that she had taken it upon herself to play servant, they would likely flay her alive. It was best if she got back to the tavern as quickly as she could. "Have a good evening," she advised, stepping back towards the door.

The bishop did not look up from his work.

Brigid slipped through the door and hurried towards the tavern, hopeful that no one would ask who had delivered the bishop's food.


	30. Chapter 30

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Okay, cleopatra32003, since the goal is not to squick my readers, this chapter is for you. See, y'all, if you tell me that you like or don't like something, you get response. By the by, I have absolutely no confidence when it comes to knowing if any of this is any good so please, please, please, keep sending those wonderful reviews. They keep this story coming. Which, if you hate it, would be counterproductive. But, if you don't hate it, please, keep letting me know. Thank you. Now on to the drama. Again. And I swear by all that is holy that we are picking up with the knights in the next chapter. I swear. And I'm not crossing my fingers behind my back. Oh, and responses to reviews will appear at the end of the next chapter since it'll be posted today as well. Yay for compulsive muses.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty: Wailing

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"Why does Ganis look like someone died?" queried Nadège, pausing beside the bar to nudge Vanora from her thoughtful silence.

Vanora followed the eldest Sarmatian woman's gaze to where Ganis sat, the squire looking hollowed out and pale in his seat at his table in the corner. "Haven't a thought, Nadège." She reached behind the bar and pulled out a ruddy-hued bottle, the glass thick with whorls and bubbles. She quickly uncorked the bottle and poured a hefty amount into a tankard. "Here, give this to him."

Nadège raised an eyebrow at the tavern owner as she set the mug of Vanora's home brew on her tray to carry it across the tavern. "Um, Van, I know the boy has put on weight since that bastard Marius isn't starving him anymore but do you think he can handle this?" she asked, motioning to the precious alcohol. If anything, Van's brew was more precious than even Zaria's voda (though Nadège wouldn't dare tell Zaria that) due to the fact that Vanora so rarely brewed her drink. That and it had a kick enough to knock Nadège on her ass.

Vanora giggled, watching as Kitra approached with Eleven balanced on her hip. "Aye, the boy is a surprise. 'Sides, he's near nineteen summers, Nadège," she added, taking Eleven and shooing her eldest back towards the kitchens.

"Really?" asked Zaria, pausing as she swept past on her way to the kitchens. "Looks bare fifteen," she decided, cocking her head to one side. "Well, save for that scruff on his chin," she added.

Vanora sighed. And that was the problem, she knew. The young man had been a shade above skeletal when he'd been brought to the fortress, his clothes hanging off his frame like sails on a ship. And yet the scrawny man had fought at the wall, swinging an axe and a club with all the fierceness of any of the Saxon men he had fought. One night Bors had confessed that Ganis had tried to stay to fight with the Sarmatians at the icy lake, only to be put in command of the refugees. The fact that the slim man was willing to fight with her husband had been enough to raise the young man in her estimation. That, and she had a feeling that the young man had a soft spot for her eldest. Therefore she was inclined to think well of Ganis.

"Off with ya," ordered Vanora, motioning Nadège towards Ganis's table. "He needs that."

Nadège shot one questioning look over her shoulder before continuing on to Ganis's table. Who was she to doubt the tavern owner?

Ganis looked up as a cup was placed before him, swallowing as he realized that Tristan's woman was now standing in front of him, a grin on her face. "Mi-um, evening, Nadège," he offered hesitantly. He'd seen her fight and she was the devil's own when she was riled, though to be fair she hadn't shown that temper since Tristan'd taken her to his bed.

Nadège chuckled at the way that his face showed his thoughts, his expressions telling. "Van thought you needed that," she advised, motioning to the cup before him.

Ganis nodded, lifting the rip to his lips and taking a gulp before setting it back on the table. "Give her my thanks," he offered dully.

Nadège frowned then dropped onto the bench across from the squire. She liked him. She couldn't explain why, but Ganis was just likeable. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly. It was obvious that the squire wasn't ready to shout his problems from the rooftops.

Ganis shook his head and took another gulp of Vanora's home brew. His coal-black eyes were fixed on the tabletop, inspecting the scrapes and dings in the wood.

"If you don't tell me what is the matter I'll put One on you. I mean, Kitra," she corrected herself.

Ganis looked up with a shocked and slightly terrified expression on his face.

"Ah," muttered Nadège. "So that would be the problem."

Ganis looked down at the tabletop again, a blush tinging his cheekbones.

"Does she know?" came the quiet question from Nadège.

Ganis shook his head.

"Are you going to tell her?" asked the Sarmatian woman, leaning forward, her elbows braced on the table.

Ganis again shook his head.

Sighing, Nadège stood. "Then you, Ganis, are an idiot." Shaking her head, she headed back towards the bar and the many cups of ale she had to dole out.

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"He likes someone else!" wailed Kitra, face pressed into the blanket she lay upon.

Vanora sighed and rubbed her eldest daughter's back comfortingly, knowing how difficult it was to deal with heartbreak, especially at fifteen summer when everything seemed to be a matter of life and death. "Dearest, who likes who?"

"JOLS!" wailed Kitra at an even higher pitch, causing her mother to wince. "He likes the baker's daughter!"

Vanora swallowed the chuckle and looked up at the ceiling, silently thanking the gods that the squire was not returning her daughter's affections. The man had tended to her children when they were little and it would be like having an uncle take an unnatural interest in her daughter. "Dear, I'm sorry. Perhaps you could find someone closer to your own age," she suggested gently.

Kitra sat up, nose red and brown eyes puffy from crying. "MOTHER! I don't want anyone else!" She flung herself back onto the coverlet and proceeded to once again burst into tears.

"Well, dear, I'll be downstairs. If you need anything." Sighing, Vanora stood and left the room, closing the door behind her. Suddenly she was very happy that her eldest had her own room. She couldn't have suffered through the wailing if they had shared a room with Kitra.

As she descended the stairs, she smiled. She'd have to treat Brigid to a cup of mead for her matchmaking skills. Who knew that Jols had a taste for baker's daughters?


	31. Chapter 31

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Please, please let me know what you think of this. I'm begging for reviews. And, as promised, we've picked up with the knights again. Next chapter will have Lancelot and Fulcina.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-One: Conversations

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"What's the first thing you're going to do when you get home, eh, Gawain?" asked Bors, leaning forward in the saddle so that his forearms rested on the pommel of his saddle.

Gawain grinned, straightening in the saddle. It had been a long three week trek north to check on the villages and all for nothing. No Saxons. Nothing amiss. Just hardened northerners who had as little interest for the king as they did anything that wasn't immediately involved with either making more of themselves or feeding themselves. In other words, the northern villages had ignored them. Well, thanked them for the concern, then ignored them.

Now a contingent of wind-burned northerners rode with them on hardy ponies. All of them near put Dagonet to shame for size-who knew that the craggy uplands could turn out these broad-shouldered monstrosities with hair of flax or copper? And all of them wearing skirts like Galahad, though the northerners had theirs crafted of a dun-colored wool.

Gawain had never seen so many knobby knees in his life and would happily never see them again. "Find Stasja and disappear into my room for a week," confided the leonine knight.

Bors chuckled, nodding. "As will me and Van. Don't know who's gonna run the tavern, though. Considering that Tristan looks ready to do the same," he offered thoughtfully, glancing back at the scout.

Gawain grinned. "Guess little Zaria will have to deal with these recruits. Almost wish I could see it. Almost."

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"They're coming!" came the shout from the men on the wall. The word carried quickly through the fortress, women dropping what they were doing to tend to their appearance and rush to the gate for a chance to see the knights.

In the tavern, Brigid paused mid-knead of the bread. "They're early," she commented, looking to her children in the corner. They were both sound asleep, fed and clean in readiness for their father's return.

Vanora, tucking herself back away after nursing Eleven, nodded.

"Van, I know that you're letting the children pick their own names, but what of Eleven?" Brigid asked, motioning to the now sated infant boy.

Vanora looked up from her son, smiling. "We've been thinking about that. One took Bors's mother's name. And I have no interest in trying to pronounce his father's name. So we're going to call him after my father," she announced proudly.

Brigid grinned. "So, my lady, what shall I call your youngest?"

"Arnau," announced the wife of Bors, grinning down at her son. "A good strong name for such a strong boy."

The cook nodded and turned her attention back to the meal she was cooking. Just as she had the day she'd welcomed the knights home after Alaisiagae's death, her feasts had now become a ritual of reunion. For days before the knights were scheduled to arrive, the tavern's cook kneaded, cleaned, and prepared pies, meats, breads, and greens. All that was left were the pies cooking in the ovens, the meat sizzling softly over the flames of the hearth and the kitchen filled with the smells of good food.

"Where are the girls?" asked Vanora, setting her son back in his cradle.

Brigid shrugged, finishing with the last batch of pies and sliding them into the ovens. "Likely gone to get a glimpse of their men," she chuckled.

Vanora nodded, rising and heading towards the tavern proper. Soon the first of her patrons would be arriving, though many a random person had popped into the kitchen looking to sample the food they could smell from the street and been roundly denied by the cook. "As if we wouldn't be out there without these little ones," she countered with a smile.

Brigid sighed. "Aye, that we would, Van. Best go get ready."

"And you?" asked the tavern owner, taking in the floured appearance of the cook, her dress streaked with pie filling and various other substances used in the making of dinner.

Brigid grinned. "Half the fun is Dagonet getting all of this," she motioned to the stained dress and the clear aftereffects of cooking on her skin, "off."

Vanora shook her head, holding up her hands in defense as she backed towards the staircase leading upwards. "More than I wished to know, Brigid."

Brigid's laughter followed the tavern owner up the stairs.

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"Nadège! What's taking so long? It's a dress-just put it on and come along!" called Stasja, tapping her foot impatiently.

Zaria glanced out the window of Nadège's room and then back to the chaos of the eldest among them's room. Pants, dresses, and tunics littered the floor of the room where Nadège had tried to decide on what to wear. "Why does she now decide to act like a woman?" asked the youngest, pain in her tone.

Nadège stepped from behind the blanket suspended from a bar and frowned. "I want to look nice, thank you," she growled. Stalking to the looking glass that she had somehow acquired, she turned this way and that. The gown was borrowed from Vanora and fitted by Stasja's clever needle. "I look like a cow," she groaned, skating her hands critically over her body from shoulder to hip.

Zaria grinned. "Come, Nadège. You can grouse on the way."

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A shrill whistle caught the attention of the brawling men, each man turning towards the source of the sound. Standing on the bar was the blonde Sarmatian woman, a staff in one hand and murder in her eyes. She dropped her hand from her mouth, glad that Nadège had taught her how to do that horrid whistle.

"All of you! Stop fighting now! Or I'll set the lot of you on fire," she growled, hopping down from the bar and stalking towards the men. The men parted like the Red Sea in Arthur's Bible, wary to come near the armed woman.

Lying at the center of the parted men was Galahad, the knight groggily sitting up. He wasn't quite sure what had happened. One moment he was playing interpreter between the Roman soldiers seated to one side and the recruits from the north and the next he'd been caught by fists from both sides. Then he'd ended up on the ground, trampled by Roman and Northern Briton. Everything was hazy until he'd heard that piercing whistle coming from Zaria.

He'd never been so grateful for hearing death threats as he was watching Zaria stomp towards him. He felt strong hands lifting him from the floor and setting him on his feet before the rumpled brewer.

Zaria swept her brown eyes from his boots to the mussed curls at the top of his head. Aside from a pair of beautifully coloring bruises on the sides of his face, he was relatively unharmed. Well, aside from the swaying. Reaching out, she wrapped one arm around Galahad's middle, supporting him and keeping him from swaying too much in any particular direction. "Nyssa!" she called, ignoring the wince that crossed the young knight's face at her shrill tone. "You're in charge. I will take Galahad to his quarters." That said, Zaria glanced at the knight at her side.

"If I knew that this was all I needed to do to get you to come to my quarters, I would have had Bors hit me weeks ago," wheezed Galahad as they began the slow trek towards the knight's quarters.

Zaria frowned. "And I'd have left you on the floor. What hurts?"

Galahad let loose a short pained chuckle. "Everything. But don't worry," he added hastily. The last thing he needed was for his brothers to know that the recruits and Romans had accidentally knocked him onto his ass. Or for Brigid to start fussing over him. "I'll be fine once I've slept."

That got a response. "No sleep, Galahad. I know enough of hitting my head that we'll need to keep you awake tonight to make sure that naught happens."

Silence reigned between the pair as they slowly completed their route to Galahad's bedchambers. The door opened, Galahad turned on unsteady feet and grinned at the woman supporting him. "Unless you have something planned to keep me awake, I'll be sleeping," he warned.

Zaria sighed as she shut the door behind them and slowly guided Galahad to his narrow bed. Sitting him on the mattress, she crouched before him, tugging his boots from his feet. The socks came next, the woolen stockings balled beside the leg of the bed. "Galahad," she murmured, sitting down beside the knight and patting his cheek to rouse him.

"You're here," he murmured sleepily.

Zaria nodded, resting her head against his shoulder. "Aye, I'm here."

Galahad pulled her tighter, his brown eyes at half-mast. "It's going to be a long night," he growled.

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Bors glanced over his shoulder at the mother of his children, brown eyes narrowing. "Kitra likes whom?" he growled from his seat on the bed.

Vanora cupped the flame of the candle as she stepped back into her bedchamber. The children were all officially abed. Perhaps not asleep, but abed. With eleven children, she was lucky to have any at all asleep at the same time. Pushing the door shut behind her, she smiled at her husband. "Well, your eldest is devastated that Jols has taken up with the baker's daughter."

Bors gaped at Vanora. "Jols? And that little scamp of a girl?" He paused as he searched his memory for the name of the baker's daughter. "Embeth or some such isn't it?" he asked.

Vanora nodded, setting the candle on the washbasin and dipping a cloth into the tepid water. She quickly wiped down her face and chest with the wet cloth before turning to her husband. "Aye, that would be her. Your daughter had a hankering for your squire," she announced softly, settling on the bed beside her husband.

Bors considered this for a moment, eyes going to the door of their chamber. "But no longer?" he asked hopefully.

Vanora shook her head, fingers moving to the plait of hair over her shoulder which she was unbraiding. "Nay, your daughter now harbors no illusions about Jols. Her affections were unreturned and moreover, she knows that he never knew she cared for him beyond as an uncle."

Bors nodded, pulling his tunic over his head and dropping it to the floor. In the candlelight he turned to look at his wife. She had donned a chemise and long robe over top of it to put the children to bed. In the dim light, she looked the same as she had that first night they'd come together. "I missed you," he admitted.

Vanora glanced at her husband, a smile creeping across her lips. "As did I. Edric is a far meaner task master than you and all of your recruits have been complaining mightily," she teased, sidling closer to her husband.

Bors cocked an eyebrow. "Ah, so you only missed me because my boys were complaining to you about my replacement."

Vanora snorted. "Edric could never replace you, love. With your recruits or myself," she added.

Bors grinned. "Ah, so now we come to the truth of it. Come 'ere," he growled, pulling his bride to him and falling back onto the mattress. The mattress sighed beneath them, billowing out around them. "I thought about you."

Vanora wriggled atop her husband, enjoying his groan. "I can tell, love. Now, enough talking."

Bors dragged her head down, capturing his wife's lips with his own. The kiss deepened and had the pair not required the act of breathing to survive, the kiss might have continued indefinitely. Pulling apart, Bors rolled his wife over so that she was pinned beneath him. He brushed his fingertips down her throat, watching as her eyes darkened. When his mouth once again descended, the only sounds that escaped through their door was the sound of pleasure.


	32. Chapter 32

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: By popular demand, Lancelot and Fulcina. My husband pointed out that they hadn't gotten a love scene. This will, hopefully, rectify that oversight. As always, please review. And don't worry about offending or "interfering," 'kay? Damned if I don't live for your reviews and I want to write something we ALL like. Oh, and responses to reviews are at the end as always. So here's more.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-Two: Bath

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Fulcina rubbed at her eyes as she heard the locking mechanism of her bedchamber door being engaged. "Lancelot?" she called softly, starting to sit up in her bed.

The dark knight approached slowly, having already shed his armor in the outer rooms of the fortress's chatelaine. "Aye, sweet," he whispered in reply. The briefing of Arthur and Gueneviere by he and Tristan had taken far longer than either man had imagined. Both rulers finally satisfied, the knights quickly headed off in different directions, Tristan for the smithy and Lancelot for the chatelaine's bedchamber.

Fulcina, now fully upright in bed, watched in the moonlight as Lancelot peeled layers of clothing from his frame. The clothes in the morning would be taken and boiled in huge vats of soapy water by the girls who worked in the fort's laundry. But tonight they lay discarded, their fibers laden with the dirt and mud of the journey. Finally bare, Lancelot stretched catlike, muscles pulling and bunching beneath his golden skin.

"I need a bath," he muttered, running a hand through his curls.

Fulcina slid out of the bed, pulling on her dressing gown as she stood. "Then, my love, it is a good thing that I've had a bath ready for the past few hours." Slipping past him, she started towards the outer room of her chambers. Behind her she could hear the knight padding barefoot across the floor.

The bath had been filled with steaming water when the maids had filled the copper tub. However, several hours had cooled the water. Stepping to the fire, she poured water into a kettle and began the process of reheating the bathwater.

"I think that I'm in love," murmured Lancelot, brown eyes fixed on the tub.

Fulcina chuckled. "Come, love, sit while I ready your bath again." She motioned to a settee and watched as the knight lowered himself tiredly to the cushions. Her motions were smoothly efficient-the actions of a mother who'd done the same hundreds of times before. "Arthur kept you late," she offered, pouring boiling water into the tub and repeating the process of heating the water over the fire.

Lancelot nodded, brown eyes following his lover's movements. "Aye."

Fulcina dumped another cauldron of water into the bath and dipped her elbow into the water, testing the temperature. Luckily two scalding kettles had brought the tepid water back to a more than comfortable heat. Straightening, she stepped to the naked knight. "Come, my laconic knight, let's get you bathed."

Lancelot stood, raising a dark eyebrow at Fulcina's apparent desire to bathe him like a child. "You had this planned," he decided, following her instruction and sinking into the tub's water. His eyes closed in pleasure as the water closed over him, lapping against the middle of his chest.

Fulcina settled on the floor beside the bathtub and dipped a cloth into the hot water before sliding it across the muscles of his back.

A soft hiss escaped Lancelot as the water drizzled down his back and his head fell back, eyes still shut. "I missed this," he breathed.

Fulcina stroked the flesh of her lover with the cloth, cleaning days of dirt and grime and sweat from his body. The water was taking on the color of dull tea and her lover was relaxing under her ministrations. "Love, I need to wash your hair," she whispered into his ear before getting to her feet and going back to the fire, where a final kettle of water had been heating. She pulled the kettle from the fire and carried it back to the tub, a wooden cup now tucked in the crook of her arm.

Lancelot's brown eyes had opened, watching her with an unreadable expression as his lover approached with the hot water to wash his hair. He remembered the first time that this strange Roman had bathed him. They'd made love for hours after. All in all a wonderful welcome home, he had decided.

Fulcina once again settled beside Lancelot and picked up the stoppered bottle of hair wash. She tugged the stopper from the bottle with her teeth and proceeded to pour a liberal amount into her hands. A quick sniff told her that it smelled of sandalwood. An advantage of Romans in residence was the traders who shared their spiced wares. Her slim fingers laced through Lancelot's curls, massaging the liquid into a rich lather.

"This is new," he purred, his eyes still shut.

Fulcina chuckled. "Aye, a purchase made just for you," she promised, sliding lather-slicked fingers down to the muscles of his neck. She kneaded them, smiling as her lover groaned in appreciation. "Almost done," she promised. She dipped the cup into the hot, clean water and poured it into his hair, sending soapy water cascading down his back to the tub. This was repeated over and over until only hot water sluiced down his shoulder blades.

Lancelot sleepily opened his eyes. Fulcina had risen from the floor and was now standing to the side of the tub, a thick sheet held open and inviting. He slowly stood up, muscles protesting at leaving the warmth of the tub. His wet feet set on the floor, he stepped to the warmth of his lover and the bath sheet.

Fucina wrapped the sheet around Lancelot, the ends wrapped one over the other at the front. "Now, I know you're hungry."

Lancelot caught her arm, stopping his lover from going to the food that had been set out for their consumption. "Not for food," he growled, pulling the Roman to him.

Fulcina giggled as Lancelot nibbled her throat. "You'll get me all wet," she teased, arching her throat to his mouth.

Lancelot bent and caught her legs in his arms, holding his lover to his chest, the bath sheet forgotten on the floor. Starting towards the bedchamber, he grinned down at his lover. "And that, my love, would be the idea," he teased back before dumping her onto the bed.

Fulcina laughed as Lancelot climbed onto the bed, pinning her to the bed and gazing down at her with those unfathomable eyes. Then the laughter turned to passion as Lancelot began a leisurely seduction.

After all, Lancelot reasoned, they had forever to go fast. And tonight was all about reminding his dark-haired lover why she loved him. Just as he did her.


	33. Chapter 33

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: More Tristan? Ya' got it. And more of the others as well. As always, responses to your wonderful reviews is at the end. And please keep those reviews coming.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-Three: Waiting

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Tristan walked through the darkness. He didn't know when things had changed but it likely had to be when his brothers in arms had locked him in a storage room with Nadège. He'd itched to be gone from the northern villages, though he'd not shown anything to his brothers but his normal implacable calm. And the debriefing with Arthur had been sheer torture. He almost detected a gleam of amusement in his commander and king's eyes as the meeting drew on and on.

But Arthur didn't enjoy torturing his men. Or did he?

Deciding to put that question aside, Tristan neared the blacksmith's shop where Nadège had told him she would be waiting when he returned. The smithy was quiet. Tristan paused in the darkness, wondering if he'd made a mistake coming here instead of heading straight to his bedchamber and a warm bed. After all Nadège was likely to already be abed at this hour. The soft clang of metal on metal swept his concerns away. He took the last few steps with the quietness he'd perfected in fifteen years of service to Rome and paused at the edge of the shadows.

She was working a blade by the light of a torch, fingers sliding along the sharpened edge, testing it. He swallowed a chuckle as Nadège winced and stuck her now-bloodied finger in her mouth, sucking on the digit and trying to soothe the sting. There was a clomp as Nadège set the weapon on a shelf then turned her attention back to her tools at the anvil. She was quick and efficient as she cleaned up her tools and put them away, ready for the next day.

Tristan leaned against the post in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he waited. It was a game to see how long it took for Nadège to recognize his arrival.

"Are you going to come in or stand there all night?" came the quiet question from the dark-haired woman at the table, her back facing him.

Tristan arched an eyebrow, pushing off from the post and slowly padding towards the blacksmith's apprentice. "You are wearing a dress," he noted, brown eyes sweeping from heel to head.

Nadège chuckled. "Aye, you are an observant one," she teased, glancing over her shoulder. Her breath caught as she took in the scout's form. He was the same-lean and dangerous-but there was something….hungry…about him. "A long meeting," she observed breathlessly.

Tristan came to a halt at the worktable beside her, eyes sweeping over the empty tabletop. A quick nod was his only answer. Reaching out, he caught her waist in his hands and lifted her, seating her on the tabletop to face him. "Very long," he agreed, lips finding her throat.

Nadège giggled, eyes closing as the scout tasted her throat. "Too long," she shivered, head falling back in pleasure as teeth grazed flesh and tongue tasted skin. Gods, the Scout's mouth was an epiphany. And all the while his hands ranged over her body, as if making sure that she was not a phantom but real and solid.

Tristan pulled back, waiting for her to open her eyes. When she did, he glanced pointedly around the shop. "Can it be left?"

Nadège nodded then hopped down from the table. "Come, Scout," she purred, pulling the tall man behind her as they headed back towards the bedchambers of the knights.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

"Is that it?" demanded Bishop Germanus, glaring at the hooded figure in his bedchamber. It was well past the witching hour and he was still awake, listening to this gravel-voiced spy in his quest to serve his master.

The hooded figure nodded.

"And I'm supposed to believe this?" He motioned to the stack of scrolls now lying on his desk.

Another nod.

Germanus frowned and stroked his chin as he thought, dark eyes moving to the flames in the fireplace. "Find me more and I will make it worth your while."

The figure nodded, accepted the bag of silver with a gloved hand, and let himself out of the bishop's bedchamber as quietly as he had come.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

"Mother, when are you going to make an honest man of Lancelot?" teased Alecto from his seat beside his mother. The mother and son had decided to spend the day together on this day of rest. Together they sat on the low wall of the sparring field, watching the knights playing with weapons.

Fulcina choked on her sip of wine and coughed as her son thumped her back to clear her cough. "What?" she croaked. Only one day since her lover had returned from the North and already her son was pressing the issue again.

Alecto grinned, though his eyes were on the sword practice. "You've been with him near a year. You're courting him. When will you offer for his hand?"

Fulcina narrowed her eyes at her son. "Have you been talking to Lancelot?" she growled, her tone warning.

Alecto chuckled and shook his head. "Nay, mother. But 'tis clear as glass he loves you," he advised, sliding a glance to his mother.

The Roman matron sighed. "As do I. But that is not the problem."

Alecto frowned, leaning back so that he could lean on his arms. His brown eyes swept the wall and took note of the fact that many young women were watching the knights and the recruits from the North as the men sparred. Apparently watching the men slicing and slashing at each other was great sport for the women. "What, then, mother, is the problem?"

Fulcina frowned. "Alecto, I'll not discuss this with you."

Alecto sighed. "Of course, Mother. But know this, I would be proud to call him 'Father.'"

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Zaria laid back on the mattress, trying to control her breathing. Lying beside her was Galahad, also breathless.

"Be my wife," asked Galahad, eyes shut as he tried to control his body.

Zaria nodded into the mattress. "Yes. Now can we do more than just hint at pleasure?" she asked, rolling onto her side. Her clothing was still on, though slightly askew from their previous activities. In fact they were both still dressed, though both wished desperately for less in the way of garb.

Galahad chuckled, still fighting to slow his heartbeat and to not pounce on the woman lying beside her. "Not until we are joined in the name of the gods with the blessing of your brother," he advised, closing his eyes.

A tug on his hand started him from his drowsing and he found a flushed Zaria aiting impatiently. "Then let's find Brigid. She's a priestess."

Galahad grinned and sat up, swinging his legs back over the bed. "You're wish is my command. But first, your brother." Rising, he went to the blonde woman.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Brigid held back Stasja's hair as the older woman emptied the contents of her stomach behind the tavern. Finally the dark-haired woman was done and straightened on shaky legs. "Stasja, how long since your last menses?"

Stasja frowned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "What?"

Brigid crossed her arms over her chest and waited. "You've been the lover of Gawain for months. How long since you last bled?"

Stasja paled and took a seat on a wooden box. "Near two months."

The healer nodded and helped the seamstress to her feet. Guiding her back into the kitchen, she settled the girl in a chair and fetched a cup of water. "Congratulations."

Stasja drank the water, her thoughts focused on a golden haired knights. _How_, she wondered, _am I going to tell Gawain?_


	34. Chapter 34

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Before anyone bites my head off for not being historically accurate about handfasting, please remember that this is fiction. And yes, Brigid is a Druidic priestess of the goddess Brigid. In rereading the story up to now, I decided that I needed to make up for chapter Twenty-Two: Completion. Yes, Tristan is getting more "ink." Enjoy. Oh, and please send reviews. Oh, and there is smut. Oh, and please keep reviewing! I can honestly say that I live for your reviews and they really do inspire me to write.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-Five: Handfasting

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Brigid crossed her arms over her chest as she smiled at Galahad and Zaria. "Now each of you must tell me three things that you do not like," she ordered.

Galahad frowned and looked at Zaria. "Do not like?"

Brigid sighed. "To be handfasted, let alone married, you must know enough about the other person to know to what you are committing. If you cannot do that, then you cannot be hand fasted, let alone married. Galahad, I love you as a brother but there are things about all that annoy. Dagonet steals all the covers, snores, and pretends he can't hear the babies when he is tired." She had counted off each thing on her fingers as she spoke. "All of which are things I would gladly change about my husband, as he well knows."

"But he's also the most wonderful lover, has the sweetest laugh, and has the courage to do battle with me." She had again counted off each thing. "So, you two, you'll need to come up with three things that both please and disappoint you. A handfasting can be broken with far more ease than a marriage and both of you are too young to rush in."

Zaria groaned and dropped onto the bench that lined one side of the kitchen table. "Brigid, you are a priestess. For the love of the old gods, marry us!"

Brigid shook her head. "First come up with what I ask. Then, if you still want this, I will bind you to one another until Beltane. And, if after that you still wish to be joined, I will bind you to one another for eternity."

Galahad nodded, his face stony. "Three things that I love about Zaria? I love her honor to her friends, her teasing, and her heart. And now, three things I do not like. She snores."

Zaria shot up. "I do not!"

Galahad shook his head. "I wasn't finished. She is impulsive. And she is hardheaded, just like her brother." He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

Zaria nodded. "Very well. He," she pointed at Galahad, " whines when he doesn't get his way. He would follow Arthur into hell if the king asked. And he doesn't like for me to do the same things as he does, like fighting."

The two young people glared at each other, wringing a chuckle from Brigid.

"And three things you like about your beloved?"

Zaria took a breath. "I love his protectiveness, his hunger for me, and his intelligence."

"Do you two still wish to be bound to each other?"

The man and woman nodded and looked at the healer.

Brigid had stepped to the cradle and picked up Aoife, cradling her fussing daughtear to her breast in preparation of feeding the girl. "Then in three days I will bind you under the full moon to one another. Prepare," she advised. "Oh, and make up."

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Tristan grinned down at the blacksmith's apprentice, nodding towards the stables.

Nadège smiled, blushing a bit, and followed the scout.

The celebration for Galahad's and Zaria's handfasting would continue on into the night, but right now the Amazone had other things on their minds. The stables were abandoned save for the horses of the Sarmatian and Roman inhabitants and Tristan led Nadège deeper into the stables until they were at the far corner, away from any accidental interruptions.

"I've wanted to do this all day," Tristan growled, pulling his woman flush to him.

Nadège giggled and pressed tighter to him. "As have I."

Tristan captured the mouth of his lover, guiding her back to the wall of the empty stall they'd stopped in. He swallowed her moans and sighs as he swept his calloused hands over the dress she had worn for the handfasting.

Nadège groaned as Tristan nipped at her shoulder through the fine wool. Her fingers raked down his back through his tunic, drawing a shudder from the scout, as she kissed his neck and the spot where his blood thundered. She smiled as she felt him dragging up the skirt of her gown, inch by inch, with his hands. She slid her hands to his front, drawing a ragged breath from the scout with her ministrations.

Tristan stared down at the woman before him for a moment then lifted her, the woman instinctly wrapping her legs around his waist as they fell against the wall of the stall. For a moment they paused and savored the feeling of fullness and bare skin. Then, with a grunt, Tristan began to move.

Nadège gasped, head thrown back in pleasure at what they were doing to and with each other. She giggled as she recalled her dream all those months ago.

"Something…funny," ground out Tristan, changing his angle and his speed and bringing Nadège back to the present with a gasp.

Nadège shook her head, biting her lip to swallow her screams. "Dream."

Tristan chuckled darkly, resting her against the wall of the stall and trailing a kiss down to the neckline of her gown. It seemed illicit that they were both fully clothed as they pleasured each other. Of course, that was half of the pleasure. "You dreamt of this?"

Nadège nodded, shifting on Tristan and forcing the scout to gasp as well. "Aye, love. But in my dream we wore nothing as we made love in the stables."  
Tristan chuckled again. "This must have been before we were locked in the storeroom."

Nadège nodded, opening her eyes. "The morning of, actually," she admitted.

Tristan guffawed, the vibrations of his laughter traveling through his body and wringing a moan from the woman wrapped so intimately around him. "So that's why I heard you moaning when I woke you that morning."

Nadège groaned and pulled his head down, fingers tangled in his braids. "Less talk, braid boy."

Tristan arched an eyebrow but did as commanded until they both finally spiraled out of control, pleasure flooding both of their bodies and wringing a shout from each. Collapsing back against the wall, they slowly disentangled themselves.

Standing on shaky legs, Nadège straightened her gown. "The reality was far better."


	35. Chapter 35

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Before anyone bites my head off for not being historically accurate about handfasting, please remember that this is fiction. And yes, Brigid is a Druidic priestess of the goddess Brigid. In rereading the story up to now, I decided that I needed to make up for chapter Twenty-Two: Completion. Yes, Tristan is getting more "ink." Enjoy. Oh, and please send reviews. Oh, and there is smut. Oh, and please keep reviewing! I can honestly say that I live for your reviews and they really do inspire me to write.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-Five: Handfasting

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Brigid crossed her arms over her chest as she smiled at Galahad and Zaria. "Now each of you must tell me three things that you do not like," she ordered.

Galahad frowned and looked at Zaria. "Do not like?"

Brigid sighed. "To be handfasted, let alone married, you must know enough about the other person to know to what you are committing. If you cannot do that, then you cannot be hand fasted, let alone married. Galahad, I love you as a brother but there are things about all that annoy. Dagonet steals all the covers, snores, and pretends he can't hear the babies when he is tired." She had counted off each thing on her fingers as she spoke. "All of which are things I would gladly change about my husband, as he well knows."

"But he's also the most wonderful lover, has the sweetest laugh, and has the courage to do battle with me." She had again counted off each thing. "So, you two, you'll need to come up with three things that both please and disappoint you. A handfasting can be broken with far more ease than a marriage and both of you are too young to rush in."

Zaria groaned and dropped onto the bench that lined one side of the kitchen table. "Brigid, you are a priestess. For the love of the old gods, marry us!"

Brigid shook her head. "First come up with what I ask. Then, if you still want this, I will bind you to one another until Beltane. And, if after that you still wish to be joined, I will bind you to one another for eternity."

Galahad nodded, his face stony. "Three things that I love about Zaria? I love her honor to her friends, her teasing, and her heart. And now, three things I do not like. She snores."

Zaria shot up. "I do not!"

Galahad shook his head. "I wasn't finished. She is impulsive. And she is hardheaded, just like her brother." He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

Zaria nodded. "Very well. He," she pointed at Galahad, " whines when he doesn't get his way. He would follow Arthur into hell if the king asked. And he doesn't like for me to do the same things as he does, like fighting."

The two young people glared at each other, wringing a chuckle from Brigid.

"And three things you like about your beloved?"

Zaria took a breath. "I love his protectiveness, his hunger for me, and his intelligence."

"Do you two still wish to be bound to each other?"

The man and woman nodded and looked at the healer.

Brigid had stepped to the cradle and picked up Aoife, cradling her fussing daughtear to her breast in preparation of feeding the girl. "Then in three days I will bind you under the full moon to one another. Prepare," she advised. "Oh, and make up."

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Tristan grinned down at the blacksmith's apprentice, nodding towards the stables.

Nadège smiled, blushing a bit, and followed the scout.

The celebration for Galahad's and Zaria's handfasting would continue on into the night, but right now the Amazone had other things on their minds. The stables were abandoned save for the horses of the Sarmatian and Roman inhabitants and Tristan led Nadège deeper into the stables until they were at the far corner, away from any accidental interruptions.

"I've wanted to do this all day," Tristan growled, pulling his woman flush to him.

Nadège giggled and pressed tighter to him. "As have I."

Tristan captured the mouth of his lover, guiding her back to the wall of the empty stall they'd stopped in. He swallowed her moans and sighs as he swept his calloused hands over the dress she had worn for the handfasting.

Nadège groaned as Tristan nipped at her shoulder through the fine wool. Her fingers raked down his back through his tunic, drawing a shudder from the scout, as she kissed his neck and the spot where his blood thundered. She smiled as she felt him dragging up the skirt of her gown, inch by inch, with his hands. She slid her hands to his front, drawing a ragged breath from the scout with her ministrations.

Tristan stared down at the woman before him for a moment then lifted her, the woman instinctly wrapping her legs around his waist as they fell against the wall of the stall. For a moment they paused and savored the feeling of fullness and bare skin. Then, with a grunt, Tristan began to move.

Nadège gasped, head thrown back in pleasure at what they were doing to and with each other. She giggled as she recalled her dream all those months ago.

"Something…funny," ground out Tristan, changing his angle and his speed and bringing Nadège back to the present with a gasp.

Nadège shook her head, biting her lip to swallow her screams. "Dream."

Tristan chuckled darkly, resting her against the wall of the stall and trailing a kiss down to the neckline of her gown. It seemed illicit that they were both fully clothed as they pleasured each other. Of course, that was half of the pleasure. "You dreamt of this?"

Nadège nodded, shifting on Tristan and forcing the scout to gasp as well. "Aye, love. But in my dream we wore nothing as we made love in the stables."

Tristan chuckled again. "This must have been before we were locked in the storeroom."

Nadège nodded, opening her eyes. "The morning of, actually," she admitted.

Tristan guffawed, the vibrations of his laughter traveling through his body and wringing a moan from the woman wrapped so intimately around him. "So that's why I heard you moaning when I woke you that morning."

Nadège groaned and pulled his head down, fingers tangled in his braids. "Less talk, braid boy."

Tristan arched an eyebrow but did as commanded until they both finally spiraled out of control, pleasure flooding both of their bodies and wringing a shout from each. Collapsing back against the wall, they slowly disentangled themselves.

Standing on shaky legs, Nadège straightened her gown. "The reality was far better."


	36. Chapter 36

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of your wonderful reviews. I'll admit to being a little worried about the smut between Tristan and Nadège. Here's more and please, please, please, keep those reviews coming. Responses to your wonderful comments are at the end as always. Enjoy!

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-Six: Results

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Vanora rubbed her neck as she gazed upon the remnants of the festivities the night before. It had been a grand party and Galahad and Zaria had both been the belles of the ball. In fact, no one save Bors and she had noticed when Tristan and Nadège slipped off and then returned a candlemark later looking decidedly flushed and mussed.

Of course it was expected. Weddings and handfastings were notorious for stirring up the sort of feelings that often led to a rise in the birthrate. Vanora chuckled evilly as she glanced back up the stairs at her sleeping husband. Maybe there could be more weddings?

She shook her head and started towards the kitchens where she could hear pots rattling and a snatch of a tune coming from her Hibernian cook.

"Good morning," offered Brigid, glancing over her shoulder at her employer.

Vanora nodded and took a seat at the kitchen table. "Aye, good morning to you as well. What is for breakfast?"

Brigid grinned and headed to the fire, returning with a thick porridge that smelled of honey. "Here, try this."

Vanora dipped her spoon into the porridge and took a bite. Lifting her head, she nodded at the cook before proceeding to devour the porridge. She set her spoon down beside the bowl and stretched, her arms high above her head. "That was delicious."

Brigid grinned. "Good. And it's also good for women who are heavy with child. Sweet but not too sweet and not so spiced as to give them a burn in their stomach. I have a feeling that there will be a great demand for it in the coming months."

Vanora nodded, resting her elbow on the tabletop and her chin on her hand. "Do you miss it?"

Brigid looked up sharply. "Miss what?"

Vanora motioned back towards the tavern where benches were still down on the floor instead of neatly stacked on the tables. "Miss being a priestess. Miss serving the goddess all the time." One would have to have been blind to miss the joy and passion with which Brigid had bound Galahad and Zaria in the rite of handfasting, tying a cord of braided green silk around their hands and pronouncing them bound in the eyes of Gods and Goddesses.

Brigid sighed and stepped to Vanora, gazing at her friend across the tabletop. "Yes. But my goddess is a goddess of hearth and home, of war and of healing. I may not be dancing around a fire naked," she stifled a grin as Vanora's eyes widened, "but I have a home and I serve in other ways."

Vanora nodded, slowly getting to her feet.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Galahad slowly came awake, pleasure rising in his body and wringing a groan from him. "Wha…Zaria?" he gasped.

A chuckle from further down the bed had him arching off the mattress. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

Galahad blinked, trying to figure out where he was. Where they were. It took him a moment to remember that they had been unceremoniously tossed into Galahad's room by Gawain and Dagonet with orders not to come out into well into the next day.

"Took you long enough to wake up," giggled Zaria before returning to her previous actions.

Galahad felt his eyes rolling back into his head at the things her mouth and hands were doing. "Up long?" he managed.

A giggle was the answer as she paused. "No, Galahad, my love, but you have been."

A moan was the only answer.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Naeus Germanus reined in his stallion watching the fortress that was his home for the present. He had to find a weakness. If the queen were to die, then the pact between Woad and Arthur would collapse. But if the king had a child? That could hold the pact.

He thought back to the way that Arthur and his queen behaved around each other. They were truly in love. But they were both warriors. Things happened to warriors.

If the pact with the Woads failed, it would be ripe for Rome to once again step to the fore. The Pope was right-they had left too quickly.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Gueneviere sighed and rolled over, her hands resting on her upset stomach. She swallowed the nausea that rose and forced herself to sit up. There was a tapping at her door and the queen knew that it was Nadège coming to fetch her for their sparring practice.

Gueneviere rose and quickly threw her dressing gown over her shift. Her husband stirred only slightly, his arm moving towards her side of the bed and only finding a rapidly cooling emptiness.

"My love," came the sleep-roughened voice of her husband.

Gueneviere touched his hair, lacing her fingers through his curls for a moment. "Go back to sleep, Arthur. It's time for my sparring practice."

Arthur nodded then quickly fell back to sleep. His wife stepped from their bedchamber to the outer room and opened the door. Nadège quickly entered, the Sarmatian already dressed in her breeches and tunic, weapons slung over her shoulders and buckled to her waist and legs.

"Good morning, my queen," offered the Sarmatian with a grin. The grin quickly faded. "Gueneviere? You do not look well."

Gueneviere swallowed. "'Tis nothing. A minor inconvenience."

Nadège shook her head, guiding the queen to a chair. "Of course it is." She stepped to the hallway and called for one of the servants, quickly ordering the man to get Brigid from the tavern. "And since we are currently not at war, the sick shall not fight. We'll just have Brigid see to you."

Gueneviere nodded weakly.

It was near fifteen minutes before Brigid came bustling in, her healing bag slung across her chest.

"The babies?" asked Nadège, eyes on the queen.

Brigid dropped her bag in front of the seated queen and crouched down. "Vanora's watching them. Gueneviere, how do you feel?"

Gueneviere cringed. "A little tired. A touch nauseous. And very full."

Nadège chuckled and quickly slapped her hand over her mouth to cover the sound at the stern look from Brigid.

Brigid sighed. "Gueneviere, remember when I spoke of a royal decree?"

Gueneviere cocked her head to one side, trying to remember. Once she had the memory, she nodded to the healer.

"I think it is safe to say that the heir to the throne now resides in your belly."

Gueneviere blanched. "But-but-but-I've been sparring up to now! What harm could have been done!" The young queen looked down at her belly in fear.

Brigid slowly straightened and sighed. "First off, Gueneviere, you haven't taken a blow to the belly in weeks. I've made sure that Nadège was careful."

Gueneviere looked to Nadège, who nodded.

"Secondly, from this moment on you are restricted to archery, just as Stasja is." The healer glanced at Nadège. "And from now on, you are her shadow. At least until the Woads can provide a guard."

Again, Nadège nodded.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Tristan gaped at his lover. Not much could startle him but this woman could. His woman could surprise him like no other before her. He closed his mouth with a snap and stepped to her. "You are to guard the queen?"

Nadège nodded but did not pause in finishing the packing of her bags. "Until her cousin can be brought, yes. I will stay with her at all times, save when she is with the king." She flipped the flap of the bag over to cover the interior and looked up. "It will be for two weeks at most."

Tristan groaned softly. "It takes two weeks for her cousin to be brought to her? Where is this cousin? Rome?"

Nadège chuckled. "Not so far, love. She is in Caerleon. As soon as she arrives, I will no longer be the queen's shadow." She stepped into the comfort of Tristan's arms and looked up at the scout. "Think of it as if you are on patrol for two weeks."

Tristan groaned louder, dropping his forehead to the top of her head. "A patrol where I see you every day for two weeks," he groused.

Nadège giggled. "If you'd like I can wear a mask."

Tristan growled and lifted the woman in his arms from the floor. "When must you join the queen."

Nadège shook her head. "Now, my love. Let me down and as soon as I am able, I will do whatever you wish."

Tristan arched an eyebrow. That was an interesting promise. "Whatever I wish."

Nadège had turned back to her bag so she did not see the devious twinkle in her lover's eyes. "Aye, whatever. Now, be a good knight and I'll get Brigid to give you an apple pie." She kissed the knight on the cheek before sailing out of the knight's room.

Tristan stared at the door, his mind already planning for their reunion. "Aye, I'll be a good knight," he said to the empty air.


	37. Chapter 37

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Okay, this chapter is violent and not so happy. My apologies in advance. But, as promised, here's another chapter. After reading the last couple of chapters, I realized that it was starting to be a PWP. Therefore, I decided we needed plot.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Betrayal

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Germanus held out the bag of silver, smiling at his spy.

The man in the cloak started to shake his head.

Germanus's smile widened. He had this man, this gravel-voiced goliath who had been so loyal, right where he wanted him. If he was to reveal the spy's treachery, the spy would be destroyed. If the spy did not do as the bishop requested, then his destruction would be certain.

"Do not ask me to do this." The spy begged his former commander.

Germanus stepped forward, pressing the bag into the spy's hand. "It is a simple task, boy. Make it look however you may wish. But I want it done before that baby is born. Do you understand?"

The spy nodded hopelessly.

Germanus watched as the spy left his chambers and chortled softly. His plans were coming to fruition. And with so little effort on his part. Only thirty pieces of silver. He wondered if the spy would understand the significance.

His master would be so pleased.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

Gueneviere sighed and leaned against her friend and bodyguard. "I miss it."

Nadège glanced skeptically at her charge. "Gueneviere, it's not as if we've shackled you to a birthing bed. You just have to be careful."

Gueneviere nodded. "And I can still use my bow," she reminded herself.

Nadège grinned. "That's the spirit. Let's go eviscerate some poor target," she suggested, sliding off the low wall and helping her queen to her feet. It still amazed Nadège that Brigid had foreseen the birth of Arthur's heir. What was even more amazing to the woman was that the Hibernian had then taken to protecting that life in as inconspicuous a way as possible. Ordering Nadège not to hit the queen in the belly had left the Sarmatian with a relatively clear idea as to the queen's situation but she'd let her queen continue to fight until the healer actually pronounced her with child.

Gueneviere picked up her bow and sighted down it to the target. "How is Tristan handling your shadowing of me?"

Nadège shrugged, stepping behind the queen and adjusting the younger woman's stance a minute amount. "He is happy for you to be carrying an heir," she replied, eyes searching for any possible assassin. How easily she fell back into her old habits.

Gueneviere notched an arrow and let it fly. "So his happiness over an heir is why he is trying to decapitate Galahad?"

Nadège glanced at the two warriors. Indeed, Tristan did seem to be taking out his frustration on the younger knight. She chuckled and thanked the gods that the two knights were using dulled practice swords. "Of course, majesty," she smirked before returning to her former occupation of visually inspecting her surroundings.

Gueneviere repeated her actions with the bow and arrow and again let it fly. "And Stasja pregnant. Soon you?"

Nadège chuckled. "Unlikely, majesty. Too many old wounds and injuries for a woman like me to carry a babe."

Gueneviere paused, considering the older woman beside her. They'd never spoken of Nadège's past save the brief account of her being set free as a Roman slave in Gaul and going to Sarmatia to find the survivors. Now she wondered what demons lurked in her friend's past. "I'm sure that Brigid could do-"

Nadège cut her friend off with a look. "My queen, your aim. Pay attention to the target."

Gueneviere nodded and returned to shooting her arrows.

All the while her friend was at her back, a solid presence and a watchful eye.

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Edric looked up as Nadège stepped into the smithy. "Come for a visit," he growled.

Nadège arched an eyebrow at his tone. "The queen is with her husband and I am not needed until morning. I thought we could do some work." She knew that Edric did not approve of her being tasked with guarding the queen, though it was more due to the fact that work was backing up in the smithy.

Edric nodded. "Aye. There is plenty to do. So, when is this great and powerful guard to arrive?"

Nadège sighed. "Ten days. A messenger arrived to tell the king that the guards would be here before the next full moon."

Edric nodded again, stroking his coal-black beard. "I've missed you, little raven," he admitted, unconsciously using Tristan's endearment.

Nadège smiled. "As I have you, old man. Now that you have your apprentice back, what should we start on."

Edric looked at the stacks of metal requiring his attention and motioned to one side of the smithy, while he took the other. The two smiths worked quietly, engrossed in the skills that they had each acquired and shared with one another.

Edric sighed.

He'd missed his little apprentice.

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Merlin smiled at his daughter, his hand covering hers. "So I am to be a grandfather," he mused.

Gueneviere smiled tentatively, glancing to her ever-present bodyguard who stood at her shoulder. "Aye. Though I do not understand all of these precautions," she grumbled.

Merlin flicked his dark gaze to the guard, noting that the Sarmatian woman was heavily armed and seemed to not be taking for granted that Gueneviere's father was not a threat. "I agree with the priestess, Gueneviere. Brigid has been around a great deal of death and intrigue in her short life. She's perhaps the best to judge your safety."

Gueneviere shot a disbelieving look at her father. "This the same woman who went off into the woods and was whipped raw by an old friend?"

Merlin chuckled. "She was always better at seeing the danger for others than she was at seeing her own." He leaned forward. "She was correct that you are more at risk than ever with the babe you carry."

Gueneviere sighed. "I'm beginning to understand why Brigid complained of Dagonet's protectiveness."

Merlin grinned. "It will become easier. You two are of a mind. Both independent and headstrong." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Be glad that Nadège here has agreed to guard you within this fortress. Else I and the elders would have moved you to Caerleon for the duration of your confinement."

Gueneviere gaped at her father, knowing all to well that her father spoke the truth. "But Caerleon is at the ends of the Earth," she complained.

Merlin shrugged. "We've had no peace for too long, daughter. This is our chance. The child you carry is not only a sign of your love for your husband, but also a symbol of the joining of Roman, Briton and Woad." He picked up his goblet of spiced wine and took a sip. "Though I will admit that I wish your mother had survived to see this." His charcoal eyes darkened as he recalled his wife.

Gueneviere sniffled and reached out, touching her father's arm. "I miss her."

Merlin smiled at his daughter. "She would have been so pleased that you had married a good man. And that you were going to have a child."

Gueneviere nodded. She vaguely remembered the woman who had birthed her eighteen years before. What she most remembered were the woman's eyes-they had always sparkled within their jade depths. She had wished for years that she had inherited those eyes that seemed to peel back layers of deceit with just a look. "Soon Nymenche and Gwenddydd will be here. And I pity anyone who tries to harm me while my aunt and cousin are in residence."

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The man tested the dagger, drawing a thin line of blood across the pad of his thumb. He would do it tonight. In only a day's time the famed Nymenche and Gwenddydd, two ladies steeped in the power of the druids and summoned from their homes in Cymru, would arrive in the fortress.

Once the two priestesses were in the fortress, Gueneviere would be untouchable. No, he had to do it tonight. He pulled on his cloak and slipped into the darkness. He had learned that the Woad would be in the Roman baths for the evening, her bodyguard her sole protection.

He made his way through the inky night, his target the cheerily lit baths at one corner of the fortress. His footsteps betrayed a slight drag to his left leg and he winced at the pull to his thigh muscles. He knew that his loyalty to his old commander had gone now beyond reason. Part of how he justified his current course of action was the rage laying banked in his heart towards his king's wife.

So many swords had been driven into the earth thanks to the Woads. They had killed so many of his friends. Staying past his term of service had only increased his rage. He had itched so many times to once again hunt the Woads and now there was peace? He knew that the Woads would turn again, betraying his countrymen. Better the Romans or even the Saxons to have Castellus.

Stepping within the bathhouse, Edric listened. He could hear splashing and laughter. His soft-spoken apprentice was talking in hushed tones with the queen and the queen trilled her laughter. He would have to kill the queen without his little apprentice seeing it.

There had been quiet for a long moment and he stepped forward, dagger drawn and ready. Stepping into the bath, he startled to a stop.

"Good evening, Edric," offered Nadège, her sword drawn and in her hand.

Edric gaped at the woman. The queen was nowhere about. But he had heard her…

"A simple matter of her being drawn away, friend." Her tone said it all-betrayal and hurt. He had never wanted her to know. To know that he was the person who would kill her charge.

"I don't want to hurt you. Just tell me where she is. She's cost too many lives. She needs to die."

Nadège gaped at the man she had called friend. She snapped her mouth shut. "Edric, you haven't done anything yet. You can walk away."

Edric shook his head, advancing on the dark-haired woman. "I don't want to hurt you," he repeated. "But I will if I have to."

Nadège nodded. This she understood. Violence. Even if it came from a friend. "You will not kill her, Edric."

Edric expelled a breath. "You don't understand, Nadège. They're worse than the Romans. Worse than the Saxons, even."

Nadège shook her head. Zaria and Brigid had spirited Gueneviere away from the bathhouse just before Edric entered the bathhouse proper. She had to give the healer and her youngest friend time to get the queen to safety. "You will not pass, old man."

Edric grinned, rolling his head on his neck. Suddenly he swung out, his blade rattling against his apprentice's. He watched as she winced. Another strike, another block. And another. And another. Then the blade swiped Nadège's thigh and he earned a wince and gasp. Then another swipe, this time across her bicep and her arm slackened, leaving her with only one arm to defend herself.

She was backpedaling. She was no match for the older, more experience man in such tight quarters. Nowhere to maneuver.

Suddenly the blade was at her neck.

"Tell me where she is."

Nadège shook her head, fighting back tears. She was about to die at the hands of her friend, a man who had almost become the father she'd forgotten. Would Tristan know how much she loved him?

Edric forced her to her knees. "Last time, Nadège. Tell me where she is."

Nadège shook her head again and closed her eyes.

The sword slid through her torso, tearing a scream from the woman, her blood spreading across the floor as she dropped with a thud to the tiled floor.


	38. Chapter 38

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: My apologies to all of you wonderful readers. I honestly didn't think that y'all liked Nadège. I stand corrected. And here's more.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Diversion

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Vanora slammed her body into the door of the table room, the door opening easily under her forceful intent. As the blood-streaked tavern owner skidded into a halt into the room, the conversations died. "Tristan!"

Tristan had been deep in conversation with Dagonet but had turned at the sound of the door being forced open. He raced forward, his goblet of wine forgotten on the floor where it fell. Grabbing Bors's wife's forearms, he searched Vanora's gaze.

"Bathhouse," she croaked.

Tristan nodded and sped from the room.

Bors and Dagonet had reached the woman at the same time and Vanora sagged against Bors.

Dagonet arched an eyebrow in question.

Vanora took another breath. "Brigid had a vision. Gueneviere dead in the bathhouse, Nadège bleeding, Edric wielding the sword." She took another breath. "She pulled Gueneviere with Zaria but Nadège stayed behind to delay Edric."

Dagonet paled and started running. He had to get to the bathhouse.

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The bathhouse was quiet save for a steady drip. Tristan pushed open the doors to the Roman building and reared back at the smell. Iron scented the air as only copious amounts of blood could do.

He listened. He could hear someone speaking. The scout crept forward, sword in hand. He stepped into the bathroom and staggered.

Nadège laid on the tile, the resident healer's hands pressing to a wound in the woman's upper chest and a pool of blood the size of Dagonet spreading around her.

"Don't just stand there," growled Brigid, not looking up. "We need to stop the bleeding."

Tristan nodded mutely and dropped to the ground on the other side of Nadège, hands moving numbly into Dagonet's wife's bag.

"Stupid, stupid woman. You should have listened. But no, you had to cover our retreat."

Tristan looked up at the healer, surprised that tears were flowing down Brigid's cheeks, as he strung a needle with thread. "You saw?"

Brigid nodded, taking the needle and beginning to stitch together the slashed flesh from the inside out. She didn't comment on the fact that Nadège had paled to a near white. "You were all distracted with Germanus's dinner." She had spat the name of the Roman bishop. "This was the assassin's opportunity."

Tristan shifted, not caring that his best breeches were ruined with a combination of water and blood. "Who?" The question was growled with as much hate as Brigid had ever heard.

Brigid looked up. "You stay here. She needs you to live. You can have your vengeance later," she promised.

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The soft creak of a rope filled the interior of Edric's bedchamber as Bors and Dagonet burst into the room. They barreled towards the kicking form of the fortress's blacksmith, Dagonet wrapping his arms around the man's legs and lifting. Bors climbed on top of man's bed, pulled his dagger, and sawed through the thick rope that Edric had strung over his rafters.

Dagonet let go as Bors finished slicing through the rope. The blacksmith fell heavily to the floor, his face ruddy from lack of oxygen, and he blinked up at the two massive knights. Both men had drawn their swords and now had them pointed at Edric.

"Why, Edric?" asked Dagonet.

Edric lay on his back, staring up at the two men. He rubbed his throat, swallowing. "Kill me," he croaked.

Bors looked at Dagonet and moved to the former knight's chest, opening it and rooting through it. He frowned as he lifted out a soft leather bag and opened it. "Silver?"

Dagonet looked at Edric, but the blacksmith's expression was stony.

Bors continued his search, pulling out papers and letters collected over the knight's lifetime. He suddenly looked up from the papers he was reading. "Dag? Wasn't it convenient that the bishop insisted that Arthur and ALL his knights come to his dinner?"

Dagonet considered this before his blue eyes narrowed. "Germanus was your commander, Edric. You were his first knight. So tell me, traitor, is Germanus your paymaster?"

Bors stuffed the papers he had pulled from the chest into his jerkin and strode towards his best friend. "It's been a while since we were tasked with interrogation," he mused.

Dagonet nodded, considering. "Aye, they have specialists for that. Where should we start?"

Bors motioned to Edric, who seemed to have collapsed in on himself. Together they lifted the massive knight together to a chair and took the rope that Edric had tried to use to kill himself with to bind the older man to the chair. "The fingers."

The only sound that came from the room was screaming.

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Brigid watched as Tristan lifted the blacksmith's apprentice from the wet ground and started towards the door. They together had managed to get the blood stopped while the woman still had blood within her. "Tristan, we're going to take her to the healing rooms."

Tristan began to shake his head but stopped at the cautious look in Brigid's eyes. He sighed and nodded, following the petite healer. He didn't want to let go of this woman. He kicked himself mentally for following Arthur's orders and going to Germanus's dinner. He should have been watching her.

Brigid opened the door to the healing room and watched as Tristan carried his woman into the room. "Tristan, get me a bowl of water and a cloth." She began to unfasten the clothing of the woman, stripping the woman's tunic, leathers, and boots. Brigid laid Nadège back on a bath sheet and took the wet cloth from Tristan. Her movements were efficient as she cleaned the blood from the woman's body. "There, there, Nadège, we'll have you good as new in no time. And your man will be waiting for you."

Clean, Nadège was lifted into the bed by her lover and quickly covered with a soft blanket.

"Brigid, I will take first watch."

Brigid opened her mouth to protest, only to have Tristan clasp her shoulder.

"Your children need a mother and you have done all you can." He looked to Nadège. "You yourself have said that I need to stay with her. So I shall stay."

Brigid nodded, watching as the scout stretched out beside his woman, wrapping himself gently around Nadège.

I should tell him to sit in a chair, thought Brigid. No, she decided, if that tiny woman is to die tonight, let him have her with him one last time.

Decided, Brigid left the healing rooms, closing the door behind her.

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Arthur looked up from where he sat outside the healing rooms, starting at the blood that covered the healer. He'd just come from seeing Gueneviere, his wife near hysterics as to the fate of her friend and bodyguard. "How is she?"

Brigid rubbed her forehead, her forehead red with the blood of her patient. "She is very weak. She lost a great deal of blood. But Tristan is with her and she has a strong will to live."

Arthur slowly got to his feet. "You need to go to Edric's chambers."

Brigid nodded, her expression hardening as she thought on the blacksmith. "I will bring my herbs."

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Dagonet stepped back from the whimpering man. They'd been using both pain and words to try to get the blacksmith to speak. Still the blacksmith did not speak. "We need to do something differently."

Bors nodded, then glanced to the door which had opened silently. His lips thinned at the sight of Brigid covered in blood and carrying her bag. "We do not need a healer, Brigid. You should not see this."

Brigid waved him off and stepped into the room and past Edric, whose dark eyes followed the healer. "Bors, you forget, I am a priestess of war and healing." She quickly assembled herbs and slipped them into a solution. Shaking the bottle with the top stoppered by her thumb, she stepped back to Edric. "Come, Edric, drink this."

Edric blinked stupidly up at the healer. The healer. He nodded and drank deeply of the potion.

Brigid stepped back, wiping her thumb on her gown and hurling the bottle into the flames of his hearth. "Now, for the subterfuge." She stepped once again to the blacksmith, trailing gentle fingers down his jaw. "Ah, my friend. Why did you hurt me so?"

The potion had done its effects and clouded the blacksmith's mind and vision. He saw what he wanted to see. "Nadège?"

Brigid nodded, ignoring the surprised gasps of the men behind her. "Aye, old friend. Why did you run me through?"

Edric took a deep breath. "I had to kill the queen. And you would not tell me where you had taken her. Will you haunt me?"

Brigid shook her head. "No, Edric, I will not haunt you. But why kill the queen?"

Edric sighed, his body slumping. "Because he asked me to."

The healer leaned forward. "Who asked you to?"

"My old commander."

Brigid straightened and stepped away from the blacksmith, motioning her husband and his best friend to her. "Do you know of whom he speaks?"

Dagonet nodded. "Edric had two commanders: Uther, Arthur's father, and Germanus. Uther is dead and Arthur was never his commander."

Brigid nodded, glancing back to the drugged blacksmith. "What will happen to him?"

Dagonet sighed. "We end this."


	39. Chapter 39

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Thank you to my wonderful reviewers. I promise that the goal is not to torture either the knights or my readers. Here's more. And, as always, responses to your reviews is at the end.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Trap

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Arthur watched his bride sleep, her features relaxed for the first time in hours. He turned his head at the movement he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye to find Fulcina standing in the doorway. Rising from the bed, he crossed to the Roman woman. "What is it, Fulcina?"

Fulcina shifted in discomfort. She'd never been good at deception and having to pretend that the queen had been killed and the only survivor was severely wounded woman in the healing rooms sworn to protect Gueneviere wore on her. But it would protect the queen from any further attempts so any difficulty was a small price to pay.

And it was bound to draw the mastermind to the fore.

"Brigid wanted to know when you intended to visit Nadège," she offered softly.

Arthur smiled tiredly at the lover of his best friend. "I will be along soon. I am to meet with the bishop and Alecto in the table room at nightfall. If you could collect my men, I would be in your debt."

Fulcina nodded and dropped a small curtsy before hurrying back down the hall.

Arthur watched the Roman lover of his best friend head back down the hallway to the wide staircase leading to the floor below. He sighed and glanced over his shoulder at his wife. He hadn't believed Germanus capable of this. He had in fact fought against Gueneviere being guarded as he knew his bride would chafe at the attention.

He had been wrong.

He had seen a lot of men die, many under his own command, but he'd never seen anyone so fragile in a sickbed as Tristan's woman. And Tristan, his most fearsome and feared warrior, had seemed lost as the older man clenched her hand in his.

Brigid had said it, she had no guarantees. But what could be done had been done. Honey had been smeared into the wounds but likely had been too late to kill infection. Edric had been tortured and drugged into confessing, his statement one that would have never held up in an ecclesiastical court. But it had been good enough to convince Arthur.

And now the trap was set.

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The torches were lit but there was no joyful laughter nor murmur of excitement. Sackcloth had been draped over the windows throughout the fortress, leaving the rooms dim. Throughout the fortress, word had spread that the young queen had been murdered, her bodyguard left for dead, and the culprit caught and in the dungeons.

Germanus grinned at his reflection. In his chambers the dirge-like mood was noticeably absent. The old Roman had taken the time to choose an appropriately somber robe, the ermine sedate against the bloody robe. His grin widened. Of all of his former soldiers, Edric had been the best choice for this task.

The man could withstand torture. That fact had been proved time and time again at both Roman and Woad hands.

And Edric would never betray his commander.

Germanus stroked the ermine, appreciating the touch of luxury that graced his otherwise austere garb. He would have to be comforting, consoling. And get Edric released to his own custody, he added, his sly smile creeping back across his lips. After all, it wouldn't do to have his most loyal servant rot in a dungeon for the rest of his days. Not when he had done so well and would serve so faithfully back in Rome.

He turned to the cup of wine that had been brought by the tavern's cook-the woman indeed who had been bathed in the blood of queen and his assassin's apprentice. He had noted nothing in her demeanor that would hint that the rouge-haired woman knew of his involvement. He thought she was involved with one of the knights though it did not concern him.

The only woman who had mattered to his mind was now dead, cold and already buried by the Woads she had represented.

There would be rebellion. War.

And Rome would step in as the saviors they were to save this backward land from its own frailties. He took a sip.

The wine was pleasant. Not of the caliber he would expect in Rome, but flavored with honey and spices. He took another sip.

Draining the cup, he peered once again at his reflection.

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Brigid pressed her palm to Nadège's forehead, wincing at the heat rising from the woman's flesh. The honey had killed some but not all of the infection and now heat coursed through the dark-haired woman's frame. At least she had stopped thrashing, her elbow connecting with Tristan's nose with unerring accuracy even in her delirium, she thought as she moved back to her bench.

Brigid had tried to pull Tristan away to look at the swelling appendage and he had shaken her off, only pulling his woman tighter to him.

Arthur stepped into the healing rooms, clasping Dagonet's shoulder as the Sarmatian stepped aside from his guarding of the healing room's door as the broad-shouldered man had no intention of giving anyone a second chance at attack. Coming into the room, he allowed his tired green eyes to take in the scene before him. Brigid's children played happily on a blanket in the corner, neither child seeming to take amiss the actions about them. Fulcina soaking clothes in water and daubing the only remaining blacksmith to cool her fever. Brigid grinding herbs with mortar and pestle. "How is she?"

Brigid looked up, shadows dark beneath her grey eyes. She slowly got to her feet. "My honest opinion?" she asked quietly.

Arthur nodded and was surprised when Brigid cupped his elbow and guided him out of hearing range of the two Amazone.

Brigid swallowed, rubbing her throat. "She lost a great deal of blood."

Arthur frowned. "Yes, you have said that before."

Brigid nodded, running a hand through her tangled curls. "Of course. Majesty, the only thing keeping her alive is Tristan." She looked up from her inspection of the floorboards to see the realization sink into the king. "She must **want **to come back. And I don't know if she would make that choice."

Arthur nodded in response, looking to his scout, who had dipped his head so that he could look at his lover's face in repose. He let out a shuddering breath.

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"My condolences on your tragedy," murmured Germanus, his arms wrapped around Arthur as he hugged the younger man.

Arthur swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and nodded. Carefully separating himself from the bishop, he motioned the bishop to a chair at the round table. "Your…condolences on our loss are appreciated," he offered stiffly. He watched the bishop settle himself in the chair before once again claiming his chair. Around the table he could see the banked flames of rage in each of his knights, though no higher than in Tristan's. The knight with the dark braids was watching the bishop with the look of his hawk watching a mouse.

"I understand that the blackguard has been captured?" began the bishop.

Dagonet nodded, leaning forward. His hands still bore the scrapes and cuts from his part in Edric's torture. "Aye. And he talked."

Germanus's eyes widened then narrowed. "That is…a stroke of luck. Do you know his identity?"

Bors leaned forward, dark eyes intent on the bishop. "It's Edric. Your first knight, I believe."

Germanus nodded thoughtfully, the gears working in his mind. "Yes. It is difficult for me to believe he was involved in something such as this." He spread his palms out as if in supplication.

Gawain nodded. "Of course, he must have been following the orders of someone," he growled.

Germanus's eyes widened. Had they not known that he was the paymaster, he might have been assumed to be innocent, thought Gawain with a start.

"He is being interrogated as we speak," announced Arthur, the king's expression stony.

One of Germanus's thick eyebrows arched incredulously. "Interrogated? You mean tortured." He stood, rage suddenly filling him. "This man loyally served Rome and was your friend. I demand that you release him to my custody so that he can face Roman justice."

Dagonet offered the bishop a smile that bore hints of something dark. "Roman justice?"

Arthur stood as well. "I think you should see your old comrade, bishop."

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Brigid watched her sole patient at present. Whatever demons she was facing, they were ones that the healer could not disperse. The dark-haired woman had stilled from her previous thrashing and now lay still, the only sign of her continued inner battle the sometimes tossing of her head.

Tristan, of course, had not wanted to leave his woman even for the meeting in the table room. But Arthur had insisted, as had Brigid. While the dark knight was otherwise occupied, Brigid tended to the wounds of her friend, changing bandages and telling the dark-haired woman of all the news in the fortress. Of course the blue-eyed woman didn't talk back, her mind and body still far away from the healing room.

Brigid sighed as she straightened the blanket over her charge and stood, staring down at the woman. It had been a full day and Nadège was still in that shadowy in-between place between life and death. But there were signs of improvement, no matter how slight. Brigid could tell that her pulse had gotten stronger and breath less raspy. The blood no longer seeped through the bandages and the fever had broken in a rush of sweat that left the blacksmith's apprentice chilled.

"You need to waken, little one," murmured Brigid, stroking the dark-haired woman's forehead. "Your scout is hard-pressed without his little raven."

"Any change?"

Brigid turned towards her husband, shaking her head. She watched as his broad shoulders slumped a bit and stepped to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "T'will be all right, husband. She is improving, just not enough to lure her from her sleep."

Dagonet sighed and rested his chin atop his wife's head. "Perhaps Tristan should kiss her and waken her."

Brigid chuckled. "Husband, I have told you too many tales of Brynhildr."


	40. Chapter 40

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Thank you for your wonderful reviews. And for my wonderful readers, here's another chapter. And, as always, responses to your reviews are at the end of the chapter.

**8#8#8#8#8#8#8**

**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Forty: Redemption

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Tristan glanced to the healer, certain that Brigid would not complain, and stretched out once again alongside his lover. He wrapped his arm around her waist, the other pillowing her head, and gazed into her quiet face. In the months that he had known this woman, she was never quiet.

Oh, she was on occasion silent but then she would launch into a flurry of motion. She lived in a world of sound and movement. The blacksmith's shop, now dark and silent, was heat and sound and swinging hammers. The practice field was sharp grunts, swinging swords and staffs, and sweat. And the room they shared-well, they were anything but quiet.

He looked down at her again. Her eyelashes fanned down onto her cheeks, hiding the eyes that he had grown to need. What was the story that Dagonet and Brigid had been discussing when he finally came back to the healing rooms after being pulled aside by Arthur? Ah, the story of Brynhildr. He remembered the healer telling both he and Gawain the story of the valkyrie cursed to the life of a mortal woman and a sleep that would not end until a man would rescue her and marry her. If he remembered correctly, the hero cut off her armor and removed her helmet before falling deeply in love with her and marrying her. What if he had just kissed her? wondered the knight.

Tristan watched the woman who lay alongside him. She had turned on her side at some point, so she was now facing him. He could almost believe that she had simply fallen asleep for a short nap. In the short two days since Edric had stabbed her, her color had improved slightly, as had her breathing and pulse. Still she had not woken up.

What would it hurt? he mused.

What if he was to kiss her? Proclaim his love?

Casting a cautious glance at Brigid, he scooted closer to Nadège until his lips were a hair's breadth from his lover. He leaned closer, capturing her lips with his. They were the same as he had remembered, warm and soft and yielding. He was so caught up in the taste of this woman that he did not notice the sleepy opening of blue eyes.

Breaking the kiss, he gasped out the words that had been rattling about in his head, eye shut. "I love you."

"Took you long enough," came the breathy murmur.

Tristan's eyes snapped open as he gaped slack jawed at Nadège, who was now trying unsuccessfully to raise herself to a seated position with the one arm under her body. His jaw snapped shut and he sat up, pushing her back down as gently as he could. "Brigid!" he called.

The red-haired healer hurried over, a smile blossoming on her lips. "Ah, you're awake."

Nadège nodded carefully from the mattress, her eyes moving to the scout. "How long?" she rasped.

Brigid motioned Tristan to stand, frowning and finally pulling the scout to his feet when he made no move to leave his lover's side. She motioned him towards the water on the table and took Tristan's place, seating herself on the edge of the bed. "Near two days. I was not sure that you would come back to us."

Nadège smiled, the expression gentle. "Someone helped me see that I had something to come back to."

Brigid arched an eyebrow and opened her mouth to ask whom but Nadège shook her head quickly. Glancing over her shoulder, she found the scout padding back towards her, a cup of water in hand. She took it from the man's calloused fingers and lifted the blacksmith to a sitting position, the cup at Nadège's lips and the water slipping past her chapped lips. She pulled the cup away and handed it back to Tristan before once again lowering Nadège to the bed.

"Gueneviere?"

Brigid nodded. "Safe as houses."

"And Edric?"

Brigid frowned and looked down at the bedspread. "He's in the dungeons."

Nadège nodded then cut her eyes away from the healer. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. The bed tilted slightly as the healer once again rose, leaving the blacksmith to her thoughts.

The bed tilted again as Tristan reclaimed his space on the bed, once again stretching his lean frame beside the woman. "What are you thinking?" he asked, catching her chin with his finger and forcing Nadège to meet his gaze.

Nadège shook her head, blinking at the emotions she saw swirling in Tristan's eyes. Well, that was unexpected, she thought, seeing concern and love and confusion warring in his smoked topaz depths. "Edric," she whispered, her gaze once again dropping from the scout's, "he…"

Tristan laid a finger over her lips, silencing Nadège. "He confessed."

Nadège nodded, laying her forehead against his chest. "Then it's over."

Tristan sighed and stroked her dark hair. "Not quite."

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The chatelaine flipped through her keys, finally finding the correct one. She glanced with concern at her lover, looking for confirmation that breaking into the bishop's chambers was a good idea.

Lancelot nodded encouragingly and waited as Fulcina slid the key into the lock and turned it, engaging the mechanism hidden deep within the wood. Moments later the pair was in the lavish chambers set aside for visiting guests. The furnishings were decidedly Roman, a holdover from its former occupant. A richly appointed bed lay behind rich curtains of the finest linen, the bed barely visible through the shimmering fabric.

"Where should we look?" asked Fulcina, all nervousness gone.

Lancelot pulled his gaze away from the richness around him to look at his lover. "You take that side, I'll take this," he advised, heading to the bed.

They searched quietly, careful not to disturb the room's furnishings or the man's belongings too greatly. Papers were rifled through with efficiency and Lancelot and Fulcina both silently thanked whatever gods were listening that they each were fluent in Greek and Latin, as the papers they read were in either language.

Fulcina paused in her search, eyes widening as she read the paper in her hands. "Lancelot, read this," she ordered, crossing the room to her lover where he crouched beside the Roman's bed, pawing through saddle bags.

Lancelot took the sheet of parchment and began to read. His brown eyes flicked up halfway through his reading. "Arthur must see this."

Fulcina nodded, her attention already turned to hiding the evidence of their search. "And tell Merlin."

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Dagonet frowned at the blacksmith, noting that the dark-haired man had taken on a decidedly feral look. His thick tangled man had become even more riotous and he had curled up into himself almost as an animal expecting constant attack. The blacksmith's body was littered with cuts and bruises from the interrogation carried on by both he and Bors. But the most frightening aspect of the blacksmith were the side effects of Brigid's potion.

Now he understood why his wife had hurled the bottle, an expensive loss, into the flames. Whatever were the ingredients in her truth serum, Edric still was talking with the demons of his past.

Dagonet almost felt sorry for the blacksmith.

Almost. If it had been his Brigid with the queen, he knew that Edric would not have hesitated to kill his own wife, even though the blacksmith did not consider her an enemy since she was not Woad.

This man had helped train both Dagonet and the other knights. He'd taught them defense. He'd taught them how to avoid angering the Romans and surviving their fifteen years. How was it that they had never taught Edric to be loyal to his fellow Sarmatians?

Dagonet stepped away from the bars that the Romans had forged so long ago to contain their miscreants in the small cells.

"When will they kill me?" came the broken voice of Edric.

Dagonet looked away from the blacksmith and went to the chair that had been set up. Settling his frame on the wood, he looked to Edric, somewhat surprised to see the older man's black eyes glittering with clarity. "It has not been decided. But at least you will not be executed for murder."

Edric gasped, a strangled soft sound. "Nadège?"

Dagonet nodded. "Alive." He crossed his arms over his chest, watching the blacksmith.

Edric nodded as well then unwound himself from the ball he had been holding himself in.

Dagonet watched as the blacksmith slowly got to his feet with staggered steps. The older man ran his fingertips over the joints of the stones, measuring his prison with the careful motions of a craftsman. "You know that he was in contact with the Saxons."

Edric looked up sharply, his breath catching. Saxons?

Dagonet noted the surprise flare in Edric's dark eyes. "Aye. Creating alliances. If his machinations with Arthur failed, he was willing to give this country to the Saxons in return for an alliance."

Edric shook his head. "He would not do that."

"I think you underestimate Germanus."

Edric blew out a breath like a horse. "He would not do that," repeated the blacksmith.

Dagonet stood, stalking towards the bishop. "You betrayed your brothers. Tried to kill your own apprentice. Tried to kill your king's bride, no matter who she might be."

Edric sighed. All that the Rhoxolani said was correct in all of the charges.

"But there might still be a way to redeem yourself."

Edric arched an eyebrow at the younger man. Somehow he didn't like the sound of that.


	41. Chapter 41

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: A request was made for more Dagonet. And I felt that I'd neglected Gawain. And I decided that I needed to give a glimpse as to the effect that the events of all of the story so far have had on a civilian (of sorts). I apologize but this chapter is a bit short. Please, as always, read and review if you so choose. Thank you to all of you wonderful people who've read and reviewed. As always, responses to your wonderful comments are at the end of the chapter.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Forty-One: Comfort

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Stasja slid her needle through the fabric, pulling the fabric back together and binding the rent in the fabric. It had taken a great deal of scrubbing by Zaria to draw the blood from the linen shirt that Nadège had been wearing in the bathhouse, but the shirt was now almost as good as new. With Stasja's careful stitches it would be difficult to tell that a sword had sliced through the fibers of the shirt and Stasja knew that Nadège would appreciate having her favorite shirt back.

She sliced off the excess thread, stuck the needle back in her pin cushion, and held up the shirt for inspection. In front of her chair was a table piled with shirts, breeches, and dresses that either had been mended or were needing mending. Since the last time she'd gone into the tavern she'd managed to throw up all over a drover after he'd groped her, she'd been ordered not to go back to the tavern until her nausea passed. Which meant that she might never set foot in the tavern until after this baby was born. Especially as she was now taking in mending for not only the knights and their ladies but also the recruits.

She carefully folded the shirt and laid it on the pile of finished mending, glancing towards the knight who lay sleeping. He'd come into his rooms, or as he liked to remind her, their rooms, after taking his turn at helping to train the recruits, laid down on the mattress and promptly fell asleep. As he snored softly, his body sprawled on the mattress, Stasja watched him.

They were going to be parents. She touched the slight swelling of her belly, wondering at the life that grew inside her. In the midst of the chaos of attempted assassinations, handfastings, and diplomatic visits, she and Gawain had somehow managed to create a child. She chuckled, deciding that she had done enough mending for one day.

The bed looked so inviting and the sleeping knight even more so.

Stasja toed off her slippers and crept to the bed, climbing onto the mattress beside Gawain and lying down. Sleep soon claimed the dark-haired woman, her arm wrapped around the knight's waist.

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Dagonet rested his son against his shoulder, the baby's fists resting on his shoulder and the tiny face asleep and facing out. He sighed and laid his broad hand across the boy's back, engulfing the tiny back. "Brigid, don't you think you're doing too much?"

The cook looked up from the bread she was rolling out, hair wild around her face and her expression pinched. He knew that she'd been running on teas and nerve and had barely been in bed since her vision of Nadège and Gueneviere dead on the floor of the bathhouse. Having the knowledge that her vision had stopped two deaths didn't seem to help his wife.

"I'm fine," she grated out.

Dagonet nodded. "Of course you are. When was the last time that you slept? For I know that you have not shared my bed in three days."

Brigid looked up guiltily, her eyes half-hidden by the loose mane that had tumbled into her eyes. "I sleep nowhere other than your bed, husband."

Dagonet nodded, rising and keeping his hand on his son to keep the infant still. "As much as I thought." Crossing to the cradle, he laid his still sleeping son in the cradle beside his daughter. The broad-shouldered Sarmatian cast a disparaging look at his wife before crossing into the tavern proper.

Moments later he returned with Vanora and Kitra. "Ladies, I am taking my wife to bed. As the only other healer in this forsaken fort, I hereby order that you are not to allow her to work until she's had at least twenty-four hours of sleep."

Vanora and Kitra both nodded.

"But, the babies-" began Brigid, looking to her children.

Kitra shook her head. "I'll watch them. They know me and you do need your rest."

Vanora nodded, slinging an arm around her eldest child's shoulders. "And I'll make sure that the kitchens don't burn down."

Brigid nodded uncertainly. "Alright."

Dagonet crossed to his wife and lifted her into his arms, calling to the mind of Vanora and Brigid the night when he'd found out about his impending fatherhood. Cradling his wife to his chest, he nodded to the wife and daughter of his best friend and strode through the front of the tavern, past his brother knights and the other patrons.

It was quite an effective way of telling all and sundry that the cook was no longer in the building.

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"Gueneviere?"

The dark-haired queen looked up from the papers she'd been reading. She didn't agree with not only her enforced convalescence but also her exile from her own fortress. "Yes?"

The honey-haired priestess stepped into the hut that had been set aside for the young queen. "This is not punishment, cousin." The voice of Nymenche had always reminded the young Woad of a brook, the cadences constantly shifting and almost musical in their tones. It was no wonder that the willowy woman was the favorite of her uncle, Gueneviere's father. "This is for your own protection."

Gueneviere nodded. "But I should be by Arthur's side. Showing the strength of the Woad connection to the king."

Nymenche nodded. "And if you were not believed dead, I would agree. My queen, cousin, dearheart, until all the threats have been eliminated from this bishop, would you sentence your friends to death?"

Gueneviere reared back as if slapped. "Are you saying that I am to blame for Nadège being attacked?"

Nymenche sighed and sat down next to the queen, her cousin shrinking back as if she would be burned by the older woman. "Cousin, you are not so stupid as to believe that. No, you are not to blame for the woman Nadège being attacked. She made a choice. She is a warrior just as you are. But this bishop and his kind will not stop until this kingdom falls. And would you help along their cause by being foolish?"

Gueneviere frowned. Even though she didn't want to admit it, Nymenche had a point. Though if the knights thought that Brigid had a bad bedside manner, they should see Nymenche at work. "You are right, of course."

Nymenche grinned, her normally stern expression transforming to one of pure happiness. "Now, tell me of all that has happened."

Long into the night the two women gossiped like the young women they were.

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Dagonet watched his wife, her face finally relaxed in sleep. He'd initially left her to sleep alone in their bed, instead claiming a chair beside the bed. He'd wanted just to watch her sleep. Then the nightmares had begun. He remembered these night terrors. She'd had them before. After Badon Hill, she'd had nightmares of finding each knight, Arthur and even Gueneviere all slaughtered. After Alaisiagae had strung her up in the woods and flayed the skin from her back, creating more scars across her flesh to join those already formed from her stay in Marius Honorius's dungeon, she'd dreamt of the mad Saxon witch doing the same to Vanora or Fulcina or even Gueneviere. He knew what would calm her when these nightmares claimed her-his touch. He'd crawled onto the mattress and curled against her, whispering in her sleep-drugged ear, and felt her still immediately.

It was hard for him to accept that all of the violence that she had seen and experienced had as great an impact on her as it did on him. She was a civilian, not a warrior. She didn't wield an axe or a bow or a sword, though she'd in passing mentioned that she knew how to do all of the above. She was his moment of peace and his sanctuary. For her to be wracked with these dreams of horror seemed the height of injustice.

She'd once explained that her visions were always of death. Some that she could counter. Some that she would never counter even if she could.

He remembered the morning when she'd told him of seeing him dead, bolts cutting into his flesh and his skin iced from the water of the lake. He'd disbelieved her then. No longer.

She had been afraid to sleep.

He knew that now. She would have stayed awake as long as possible until her body finally collapsed in on itself. He would not allow that. He'd used his own learning as a healer to counter her self-destructive actions and he would do it again.

If only he could take her nightmares.


	42. Chapter 42

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: As always, responses to your wonderful reviews is at the end of the chapter. And, please, keep them coming. I do care what you think and I want to know what you like and don't like. As long as it's constructive, it's not a flame. So, since I've been without an internet connection for over a week, we'll be seeing more chapters coming fast since I've been going nuts without updating. Thank you for continuing to read and thank you for reviewing.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Forty-Two: Plots

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Merlin frowned, dark eyes focused on the embers crackling within the campfire. He was leader of the Woads, father of the queen, and he had no idea how to eliminate the threat of Bishop Naius Germanus without bringing the wrath of Rome down on Arthur or himself.

"Old Man, you worry too much."

Merlin looked up as Nymenche dropped onto the ground beside him, her slim form wrapped in a cloak. "And my daughter?"

Nymenche reached for one of the rabbits cooling on a stone. "Gwenddydd is watching her. She sleeps for now." The priestess sighed, tearing off some of the flesh and chewing. "You cannot touch the bishop."

Merlin's frown deepened. "He was willing to murder my daughter, Nymenche. And you tell me that I cannot take retribution?"

Nymenche shook her head, her green eyes watching the flames as she continued to eat the hare. Her eyes did not turn from the dancing flames. "Neither Woad, Sarmatian nor Briton may take revenge on the Roman, as you well know."

Merlin growled. This woman was kin, his protégé, and a powerful woman in her own right but that didn't mean that he had to agree with her. "So he walks away unscathed?"

Nymenche turned her moss-green eyes to the leader. "I never said that." Stretching, she felt her bunched muscles relaxing. "Gwenddyd's husband has already set events in motion to deal with the Roman."

Merlin smothered a grin. If the feared Rhydderch Hael, king of Stathclyde, was planning vengeance on behalf of Rhydderch's uncle-in-law then it would be picturesque to say the least.

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The sails fluttered in the wind, the people aboard with eyes only for the shoreline. They had been summoned from their own land by one of the kings of Cymru and they were loathe to tarry any longer than necessary upon the waves.

"What do you think we shall find, Cullen?" asked an ebony-haired man, leaning against the railing of the deck.

A flame-haired man sighed, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs braced apart to manage the rolling deck. His form was one that near shouted power. "I do not know, Aiden. But Rhydderch Hael was clear. We are needed at the Wall."

Aiden straightened, dark curls falling carelessly in front of his grey eyes. "Have you ever been to the Wall, Cullen?"

Cullen shifted as the ship took a wave. "Aye. Long ago when I played escort to Gwenddyd to her husband." He frowned, eyes scanning the cliffs facing the water. "I fear that if we are being summoned that we will find great intrigue."

Aiden shrugged. "We are of the Red Branch, Cullen. Intrigue is part and parcel of our lives."

Cullen nodded. "And perhaps you will find your cousin?"

Aiden grinned, straightening to stand beside the broad man with the copper curls. "Aye, little Brigid. I wonder what she has become. Last I heard she had been sent to the Wall by the priests of Ynys Môn."

Cullen watched his dark-haired friend. Even though they had known each other for near a dozen years and fought beside and with each other for all of those, it was rare for Aiden to show anything but the harsh warrior. And for the dark prince to speak of his family was far more rare. "I'm sure that if she is as beautiful as you claim that I shall have her eating out of my hand in an hour."

A sooty eyebrow rose. "I fear that you shall be dissuaded, brother."

Cullen shrugged. They would find out soon enough. And he would enjoy seducing the little cousin of his friend.

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"Dag, do you think I look like a sow?"

Dagonet looked up from the blade he was sharpening and grinned. "Never in a thousand years, Brigid. What are you dressing like that for?" he asked, motioning to the breeches and fitted tunic that Brigid had donned. His wife was peering into the looking glass hung on the wall, inspecting her appearance.

"Zaria needs a sparring partner."

Dagonet frowned and sheathed the sword, laying it on the bed and standing. "Brigid, are you certain that it is wise for you to spar with Zaria? She is a skilled warrior. Do you not think that you will be harmed?"

Brigid grinned, tugging on the belt cinching her tunic so that it hugged her once again slim waist. "If I am, it is good practice. And with Nadège confined to her bed, Stasja confined to the bow, and Gueneviere-" she paused, thinking on her queen and friend. "Well, Zaria has no one to practice her sword work with. And I do have some training with the sword," she added, sweeping her hair back into a braid.

Dagonet stepped to his bride, stopping behind her. "What brought this on?"

Brigid's smile slipped and she met her husband's gaze in the polished silver. "Whatever do you mean, husband?" she asked in a tiny voice.

Dagonet let his hands fall on her shoulders, watching her face. "You don't fight."

Brigid shrugged off his hands, stepping towards the trunk at the end of the bed. Opening it, she pulled a sword from the trunk, the blade inscribed with druidic words and pictographs of fearsome animals. "Dagonet, I do not always play the peacemaker." Looking up, she met his gaze. "War is coming, Dag. Whether it be Saxon or others, war is coming and they won't care if I'm a healer or a woman or even if I'm your wife." Closing the trunk, she buckled on the sword and slung the bow over her shoulder.

Dagonet watched silently as his wife left their bedroom.

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Fulcina threw her legs over the edge of her bed, swallowing back the bile that rose in her throat. Her hand went quickly to her mouth, covering her lips and giving her added security that she would not vomit all over her bedchamber. Behind her lay Lancelot, his well-muscled body sprawled across her mattress, oblivious to his lover's distress.

How many days since she last bled, she wondered as she padded silently out of the bedchamber to the sitting room adjoining it. She stepped to the window, leaning against the casement as she watched the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon. She'd been so careful.

Her fingers clenched the casement as her mind was cast back to the past. Seventeen years with Marius Honorius had taught her that a man could change. When she'd first married the squat Roman, she'd been the privileged daughter of a fine Roman family, never lacking for any luxury available in the empire. She'd thought the man selected to be a noble man, a man who appreciated not only the finer things in life but also the people who made his life easier. Once Marius had believed in the teachings of Pelagius as much as his bride did.

Then the young family had been sent to Britain, given the land by the Pope.

The island had changed Marius.

Fatherhood had embittered Marius.

Her hand drifted to her belly, resting on her still flat stomach.

Would Lancelot be as changed?

She swallowed and closed her eyes, refusing to try to answer that question.

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Zaria drew her sword, watching as the fortress's healer approached across the practice field. The golden-haired woman had been surprised when Dagonet's wife offered herself as a sparring partner. Zaria was determined that she would go easy on the healer. After all, Brigid had never shown any indication that she knew how to fight beyond the bow, let alone any willingness to fight.

"Are you certain you wish to do this?" asked Zaria once again as Brigid neared.

Brigid nodded, pulling her own blade from its sheath and tossing the sheath to the ground out of range. "Aye. Now, enough talk." She dropped into a defensive stance, immediately bringing Gueneviere's fighting style to Zaria's mind.

Zaria nodded and began to attack. If Brigid fought like Gueneviere, then this would be interesting.

Steel sang in the afternoon light and the clang of metal on metal seemed to echo across the emptied practice field. Brigid panted softly as they clashed swords, silently cursing her own laziness in not practicing the arts of battle since the birth of her children. Zaria slammed her elbow into Brigid's jaw, knocking the healer back.

Brigid spat on the ground and grinned viciously at Zaria before once again launching an attack against the blonde woman. Parry. Thrust. Block. Turn. They matched each other's movements and met blow for blow. Zaria feinted, trying to draw Brigid into a rash attack. Brigid countered, slamming the pommel of her sword into the blonde's temple.

Zaria stumbled, trying to clear the stars from her eyes. She blinked at the healer, surprised that the gentle expression had been replaced by one of almost feral pleasure. Since when did Brigid take such pleasure in fighting, wondered Zaria.

Brigid advanced slowly, her pulse racing with the adrenaline of violence. She watched the blonde warrior. Zaria had forgotten one important fact: know thy enemy. Brigid rolled her neck, remembering the battle drills that the priestesses went through on Ynys Môn. She had never been just a healer.

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Ganis winced as Kitra pressed a cloth to the cut on his forehead. The eldest daughter of Bors frowned down at the squire, none to gentle as she tended to the wound on his head.

"And what did you think you were doing, Ganis?" demanded Kitra, her voice level but still showing signs of her anger.

Ganis's black eyes narrowed. "Defending your honor, lady."

Kitra threw down the cloth onto the tabletop, her hands fisted on her hips. "I need no defending from you, Ganis. I have always been able to take care of myself." She searched the squire's face for acceptance and found only mute resistance in the seated squire's face. "And you had no need to defend me from Angus," she added.

Ganis nodded, his shoulders sagging. So, he thought, I am too late.

"He doesn't like me like that," added Kitra, her eyes turned to the salve that she was to smear on the squire's forehead.

Ganis's breath hitched. "Like you in what way?"

Kitra turned back, eyes glittering mischievously. "You're more at risk from Angus than I am, Ganis. Now, no more trying to defend my honor?"

Ganis nodded slowly.


	43. Chapter 43

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: _Thank you so much for all of your wonderful reviews. And thank you for the support in dealing with my two-year old. When did she stop being the compliant child? Wait, she never was a "compliant child." Sigh. Okay, no updates for twenty days and for that you have my humblest apologies. I promise to at least try to do better. As always, responses to your stellar reviews are at the end of the chapter. _

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Forty-Three: Questions

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The scene was pure carnage. Blonde and dark-haired warriors lay strewn over the clearing, the only universal thing among them was that they all had the stunned look of the newly dead.

"Enough, Aiden?" puffed Cullen, leaning against a tree, his sword held loose at his side. The blade was slick with blood.

Aiden nodded, grey eyes sweeping over the dead. "Aye. They'll do." Nodding to two flaxen warriors that were the mirror image of each other, he watched them start the gruesome task of stripping and burying the dead.

Cullen frowned. "Aiden, why are we pretending to be Saxons?"

Aiden wiped a bloody hand across his brow, mingling blood with sweat. "Because none but those we serve may know that we are here. There will be no songs sung of our travels here, brother. No tales to warm the fire. We serve a mission that could destroy both our kingdoms if it was known that we were present." He sighed.

The copper-haired knight nodded cautiously. "And the fact that not one of us speaks their cursed language?" He motioned to the dead Saxons as clarification of whose language he spoke.

Aiden shrugged. "Just grunt. No one will be the wiser."

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Fulcina twisted the linen around her fingers, eyes on the horizon. She could hear the sound of the lock being shot home, signaling that Brigid had finally arrived. The Roman felt a bit guilty calling the fortress's healer away from her children, but it couldn't be helped.

"Fulcina?" came the soft voice of Brigid as she stepped into the chatelaine's sitting room. Grey eyes quickly took in Fulcina's pale complexion and the way that Lancelot's lover refused to meet her eyes. "What is the matter?"

Fulcina swallowed and turned her head to meet Brigid's gaze. Eyes rimmed red from crying, Fulcina watched the emotions flash through the Hibernian's eyes. She knew that Brigid was not a stupid woman, though Brigid kept to the tavern's kitchen and was therefore easily ignored by many in the fortress.

Brigid sat down beside the Roman, reaching out with a gentle hand to cup Fulcina's cheek for a moment as she inspected Fulcina's face. "I thought that you were taking the herbs?" came the soft question.

Fulcina nodded, eyes dropping to her lap. "Yes."

Brigid watched, face tense. "What do you want to do?"

Fulcina looked up, startled. That question was unexpected coming from the healer. But then Fulcina remembered that Brigid cared for the civilian population of Castellus as well as the knights. Such questions were the norm when dealing with a pregnant woman. "I don't know," answered the Roman woman in a tiny voice.

Brigid nodded, turning her grey eyes to the window that overlooked the wall. She sighed. "How long?"

Fulcina's grip on the linen in her hand tightened and she stared down at her lap. "At least a moon."

A quick nod from the healer was the only answer.

Fulcina looked up, brown eyes searching. "Do you think that he will be angry?"

Brigid blinked. "If you end it without telling him? Yes. Especially if you intend to keep him with you." The Hibernian's hand laced through Fulcina's. "If you tell him, I do not think that he can be terribly angry. He has changed since he has known you."

Fulcina nodded.

"Do you want me to stay?" came the quiet question from Brigid.

Fulcina thought about it, then shook her head. "Nay. He and I did this together alone and it should just be the two of us when I tell him, I think."

Brigid nodded again and leaned to the Roman, pressing her lips to Fulcina's cheek. "And I will come running if you call," promised the healer as she stood and left the room.

Fulcina breathed a deep breath and waited.

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Vanora giggled, brown eyes pressed shut against the light streaming through the window.

"And what do you think you are laughing at, woman?" came the growled question from beside her ear.

Vanora shifted and heard a second growl emanating from her husband. "The fact that for the first time in too long, the women around me are all with child save me." She giggled again, snuggling tighter to her husband.

Bors raised an eyebrow in the half-light of their bedchamber. "Are you making a request?"

Vanora fluttered her lashes at the thickset man lying beside her, deciding to answer his question with a question. "Are you saying that you would like to make our brood an even dozen?"

Bors chuckled, pulling the red-haired woman atop himself. "Perhaps a bit of practice, woman, would be in order."

Vanora leaned down, capturing Bors's lips with her own. After a long interlude, they broke the kiss. "My husband, your wish is my command."

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Stasja leaned back against the headboard, watching as Gawain pulled on his boots. "How long?"

Gawain looked up from his boots to his lover. "I'm not sure. This is a task set by Merlin." He straightened so that he sat upright. "I will do all in my power to return to you as quickly as possible."

A dark eyebrow arched as the pregnant woman considered his answer. "Since when do you answer to Merlin?"

Gawain sighed. All women, according to Bors, reacted to pregnancy differently. Vanora's pregnancies were well-known to all the knights due to eleven children. Brigid's pregnancy had been…unusual. The golden-haired knight was certain that pregnant women were not to be either being whipped raw by old friends or riding about the countryside at nine months pregnant. And then to have twins-Gawain glanced at Stasja's belly, wondering if it was boy, girl, or some multiple number of either or both.

"Well?"

And Stasja as a pregnant woman meant his sweet lover held a little tighter to her lover.

"Stasja, he is advisor to the king. Arthur trusts him. And this task must be done by me."

Stasja frowned and crossed her arms over her breasts. "I do not like it."

Gawain smiled and stood, his hands moving surely over the fastenings and buckles of his tunic and jerkin. "I know you do not like it, Stasja. But I will return to you." He leaned down and captured her pouting lips. "On my honor," he added a hair's breadth from her lips.

Stasja watched with amber eyes as Gawain pulled on his cloak and left the room. "Go with the wind, my love. And return to me." Her words echoed in the empty room and Stasja burrowed deep into the covers of their bed.

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Galahad handed up Gawain's bags to his brother knight. "I should come with you."

Gawain looked down at the dark-haired young man who had been ripped from his mother's arms as barely a man. In fifteen years Galahad had gone from a runny-nosed whelp to a quietly confident man. "I will be fine. You are near as bad as Stasja with your worrying." Laughter danced in Gawain's blue eyes, softening his words.

Galahad nodded. He didn't like that Gawain was riding off into the morning dawn on a secret mission at the direction of Merlin but it was an order. And the king had been clear-only Gawain could ride on this mission.

Even Tristan and Dagonet had voiced reservations about this particular assignment.

Gawain and Arthur, however, had stood firm.

Hence the reason why Gawain sat astride his gelding, traveling cloak swaddled around his form and strong hands holding the reins in hand. "Look after Stasja for me," he asked.

Galahad nodded, patting the gelding's neck. "You needn't even ask. Stay safe."

Gawain nodded and kneed his mount forward.

Galahad stood rooted in place, watching the horse and rider disappear into the vanishing gloom of predawn.

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Dagonet watched as Brigid nursed Iollan, murmuring in her own tongue to his son. "I heard you speaking with Gawain."

Brigid looked up sharply, earning a plaintive wail from her son at not keeping her attention wholly on the babe in her arms. Rocking and shushing her son, she waited until her son was once again occupied with nursing before turning her attention once again to her husband. "What did you hear?"

Dagonet sat down beside his wife, their daughter in his arms. "You've taught him your language."

Brigid nodded. Of all in the fortress, Dagonet would know if another could speak the tongue of Hibernia. Just as her husband had taught Brigid the language of Sarmatia, so had Brigid taught Dagonet the language of her own land. "Yes."

Dagonet rocked his daughter in his arms. "Why?"

Brigid stood, her now sleeping son nestled in her arms. Stepping to the cradle that her children shared, she laid the child in the cradle and returned to her seat beside Dagonet. "Because Merlin asked it of me."

Dagonet nodded. "Was this why only Gawain could ride out on this journey?"

Brigid met her husband's blue-eyed gaze. Her silence was answer enough.

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"What is this plot that you are playing out, Father?"

Merlin glanced over his shoulder at the woman standing behind him. "Ah, daughter. Should you be out of bed?"

Gueneviere arched an eyebrow at her father. "I heard that a messenger had returned from Castellus and Arthur. What news is there?"

Merlin stood from the circle of stones around the fire and stepped to the queen. "Ah, Gueneviere, let us walk." He nodded to the elders with whom he had been talking, feeling their eyes following he and his daughter as they stepped into the shadows beyond the fire. "Daughter, you should not be exerting yourself."

Gueneviere frowned. "Father, I am a warrior. And this," she rested her palm on the swelling in her belly, "does not change that. I am queen of this land. What news have you of my husband?"

Merlin paused, black eyes searching his daughter's brown. Sighing, he drew from the seam of his cloak a scroll.

Gueneviere opened it greedily, brown eyes sweeping over the contents. Her heart sped as she recognized Arthur's efficient hand and then sped even faster as his words sank into her mind. "He agreed to this?"

Merlin stood, arms crossed over his chest, watching his daughter's reaction to this plot. "He agreed to allow this situation to be resolved by those neither Woad, nor Briton, nor Sarmatian."

Gueneviere shook her head. "Father, he is an honorable man. He would never agree to assassination."

Merlin smiled. "Nowhere in that letter does it say assassination, daughter."


	44. Chapter 44

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to resemble any other story nor any other author. Andy resemblance to any characters, scenarios, or people (living or dead) is unintentional. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: Since there were so many questions about the last scene in the last chapter, I decided to continue it a bit. Thank you, everyone, for reminding me to get back to this story. And thank you for all the reviews, everybody. As always, responses to your reviews are at the end of the chapter. My apologies that I've been so remiss in updating this chapter-I have no excuses and only a promise to try to do better.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Forty-Four: Afire

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Merlin arched a graying eyebrow at his daughter. "And I have never asked for your husband to agree to assassinate anyone. I have merely requested that he allow a neutral party to handle the bishop."

Gueneviere snorted, her hand resting protectively on her barely swollen belly. "Father, the Irish are not neutral."

Merlin chuckled. His daughter had always been perceptive. "Gueneviere, you more than any other know that the Irish will not antagonize Rome. They will not attack a Roman bishop. And their only interest in Arthur's realm is to use as a buffer against the Saxons."

Gueneviere listened, arms moving to cross over her bosom. "Yes, yes, father, this is common sense. But that does not take into account Gwenddydd's husband. Rhydderch Hael is a man indebted to you. If you asked, the king would use his influence with the high king to use the Irish in your schemes."

Merlin watched his daughter, noting the rigid posture and the flush that graced her cheeks. She looked so much like her mother that Merlin was momentarily taken aback. "Daughter, you must believe that I can orchestrate the moon and stars as well if you believe me capable of orchestrating such schemes."

"While you are no sorcerer as you are reputed, you are no kindly grandfather," she replied shortly. "I will not have you bring down the union that Arthur and I have forged by bringing Rome roaring back to our lands."

The old man shook his head. "You sound like Brigid. And she is as Irish as the day is long."

Gueneviere shrugged. "She has intelligence, father. She knows the danger of your plans."

Ah, he thought. "And yet she has agreed to play her part in them."

That set the young queen aback. "She has?" came the tremulous question.

Merlin nodded. "Aye, she's taught her language to Gawain, the only one among the knights whose coloring could pass for Saxon."

The color seeped from Gueneviere's face as she quickly lowered herself to sit on a fallen tree. "Father, what are you playing at?"

Merlin looked down at his daughter. She was so young to have seen the death and horror that she already had experienced. "There are two threats to your husband's kingdom, daughter. The Romans and the Saxons." He watched his daughter's face, watched the understanding in her eyes. "If we do not deal with the Romans now, your kingdom will fall because full attention will no be given to the threat posed by the Saxons. And there will be nothing left of the kingdom built on the blood and lives of our people. Would you rather watch all you have come to love be smashed to bits?"

Gueneviere sighed. "Know this, father. If your actions bring destruction on Arthur's kingdom, I myself will stand against you."

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Dagonet watched his wife, her scarlet mane still damp from her bath, as she sang in her native tongue to Aoife. The little girl, now near half a year gone since her birth, watched her mother with serious grey eyes. Neither had spoken of Gawain's leaving, almost as if by not talking of it that the golden-haired knight would come around the corner.

Finally their daughter fell asleep and Brigid deposited the red-fuzzed child in her cradle beside her brother. He watched as she turned back towards their bed, the candles guttering on the table causing her face to be washed in gold.

"They're asleep," she offered softly, stepping to the bed.

Dagonet nodded, feeling the mattress sink slightly as his wife sat down on the edge. "We need to talk."

Brigid stiffened perceptibly, gray eyes casting towards the door. Each time he tried to talk of anything other than their children, their patients, or the weather, she tended to run. But now, with the moon high in the sky and all quiet with the darkest night, she could not run. "No, Dagonet, we do not."

Dagonet let out an exasperated sigh. He sat up, the blankets puddled around his hips. "Yes, Brigid, we do. You are getting involved in Merlin's plans."

Brigid turned to face her husband, grey eyes unreadable in the dim light. "Dagonet, I have always been involved in Merlin's plans."

Dagonet frowned. "Was I part of Merlin's plan?" His voice was barely louder than the hushed breathing of his children.

Brigid blanched and rose from the bed to stand beside. Even though she was far shorter than her husband, she towered over him, her rage seeming to make her ten leagues tall. "How dare you," she replied in a harsh whisper, ever mindful of waking her two children.

Dagonet motioned to the two sleeping children. "Were our children part of Merlin's plan?"

Brigid felt the heat rising in her cheeks, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of emotions. "How could you ask that? Of course you were never part of Merlin's plan. Nor were our children. Not everything can be foreseen, husband." The last was grated out between her teeth.

Dagonet nodded. "And if it could have been foreseen, would you have chosen us or Merlin?"

Brigid took a deep breath, trying to calm the rage flowing through her. "You, you bastard. Though sometimes I wonder if you would have chosen me."

Dagonet rose, stalking towards his wife. "And teaching Gawain your language?"

Brigid backed up, her back colliding with the wall as the color bleached from her skin. "He can pass for Saxon, Dag," she answered quietly, her eyes pleading for him to understand as her tone changed from anger to regret. "If we are to protect Gueneviere and this kingdom, it was vital for Gawain to know my language."

The problem was that he did understand. He understood all too well. He understood that the woman he called wife had choices to make and duties that rivaled his own. Hands braced on the wall either side of her shoulders, he looked down into her glistening eyes. "I love you, woman. I would live for you and die for you. But do not choose Merlin over us."

Brigid reached up, hands cupping his cheeks and thumbs stroking his cheekbones in reverence. "Husband, I would never make that choice."

The kiss that followed set the world afire.


	45. Chapter 45

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to resemble any other story nor any other author. Andy resemblance to any characters, scenarios, or people (living or dead) is unintentional. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: I'm back. I don't know how often I'll be able to update with two kids and work and drama. But I want to thank all of you for standing by and being patient. I couldn't resist introducing a new facet to the story. With any luck, more will come to me as my muse sluggishly returns to the King Arthur genre.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Forty-Five: Pale Horse

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The army rolled forward with an almost biblical destruction. Swords found their sheaths in the bodies of the peasants who were not quick enough or smart enough to flee. Flames licked the broken spines of house and hall alike. The air stunk of roasting hair and the contents of hundreds of loosened bowels.

"My Lord, a missive."

Clad in hammered armor, the visored warrior reached out impatiently, taking the scroll. The young priest stood before the warrior, cringing at the smell of death even as he nervously stroked his bald pate.

"You do not approve of my methods, Yvain?" The voice was satiny and warm, wrapping itself python-like around the young man.

Yvain nodded cautiously. It seemed unwise to lie to the lord before him. He'd seen the truth ripped out of others by the same man. Yes, lying to this adder was a death warrant.

A barely suppressed chuckle escaped the visor of the warrior. "Tell your master that we will serve Rome. For now. Now go before my men confuse you for a woman." He waved absently at the broken and battered bodies of the small group of survivors.

Yvain blanched, running back to his gelding and the safety of the Wall. Better, he decided, to die once than die slowly at the hands of this monster.

The warrior grinned, arms crossed over his broad chest.

"You frightened him, My Lord."

Slowly reaching up, the warrior pulled his blackened helm from off of his head. Fixing his second in command with his icy green-grey gaze, his lip quirked up slightly. "And he would do well to remember that. Come, Hagan, do not tarry here. There's more work to do."

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	46. Chapter 46

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to resemble any other story nor any other author. Andy resemblance to any characters, scenarios, or people (living or dead) is unintentional. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story._

Author's Note: It took me rereading Visions of Death and this story for me to get back into the swing of things. Oh, and thank you to you wonderful readers who have reminded me that I need to work on this story. Those words did not go unheeded. Thank you again to those of you who have reviewed in the past. I promise to do better about updating now that we're back in the groove.

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**Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?**

Chapter Forty-Six: Friends

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Merlin frowned, leaning towards the survivor who'd just arrived from the shore. "You were certain? A man in dark armor?"

The boy nodded as he swallowed another cup of water gratefully. "Aye, sir."

Merlin shook his head, slowly getting to his feet. He wasn't old but it was in these moments that the years crept upon him. Patting the lad's shoulder, he moved off. First the Saxons, then the Romans, and now…who? He didn't recognize the description though he was certain the scout had explained accurately.

Two enemies at once, they could survive. But three?

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Fulcina gazed out the window, her hand resting on her belly. In her mind she replayed her conversation with Brigid over and over again. Why hadn't she asked the healer to stay with her while she spoke with Lancelot.

Oh, that's right, because Bridgit hadn't been in the room when the babe was conceived.

The sound of her door opening stirred Fulcina from her reflections and she turned to face the dark-curled knight. "Ah, my love," she offered softly.

Lancelot smiled cautiously and shut the door behind himself. "Dearheart, are you feeling better?"

Fulcina's smile faltered. He'd noticed her being ill? She'd been so careful. "Nothing that time won't cure," she answered from her window seat. She patted the cushion beside her, watching as the graceful man came towards her. "I have something that I must tell you."

Lancelot settled on the window seat, drinking in the dark-eyed woman beside him. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips, his lips grazing the back of her hand. "Tell me true, first, do you love me?"

Fulcina gasped. "You know I do," she answered.

Lancelot smiled. "Then all else is resolved." He leaned back against the window casement. "Now, what news do you have?"

Fulcina chewed on her lip. "I do not want you to hate me," she confessed.

Lancelot cracked open an eye. "Little chance of that unless you are a traitor." At the vigorous shaking in the negative by his lover, he smirked. "Then you are safe."

Fulcina swallowed and closed her eyes. "I am with child. With your child."

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Cullen glanced at Aiden, quickly and silently signaling that someone was approaching. 'One on horseback.' A quick nod back from the dark prince and the men arrayed themselves, arms ready to deal with the intruder.

Cullen sidled closer to his dark-haired friend. "Do you think it could be our guide?"

Aiden shrugged and readied his sword.

Moments later they were dragging the blonde knight from his horse, pinning him to the ground.

"Who are you?" demanded Aiden, stepping closer.

Gawain glared up at the dark-haired warrior, taking in the silvery eyes very similar to those of Dagonet's wife. "A friend," he answered warily.

Cullen snorted, coming closer with his dagger. "We have all the friends that we need," countered the red-haired warrior. "Come, Aiden, let me dispatch this oaf."

Aiden crouched beside the sprawled blonde warrior, eyes thoughtful. "Where is the honor in that?" he asked, starting the first part of the code.

Gawain's eyes widened and he swallowed. "_Bás roimh dishonor, theaghlach roimh gach_." He prayed to the Gods that he'd gotten the pronunciation right.

Watching Cullen putting away his weapons and the grin that spread across Aiden's face, Gawain knew that he owed the little tavern cook a fine present. He might just make it through the rest of the day.

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Translation:

_**Bás roimh dishonor, theaghlach roimh gach:**_ Death before dishonor, family before all

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